Remission
by Simon920
Summary: Justin is diagnosed with cancer. Note: This story follows the illness of a real person. What happens in this story is real, I've simply changed the names of the people involved. This is not a happy story. If this is a problem, don't read it.
1. Chapter 1

**A word of explanation:** For the first time in the roughly two hundred stories that I've written, I feel a need to explain something about one of them.

This story is real. It's not funny or happy, but it's real, so if that bothers you, then please move along.

Though the story is now finished, it was written as the events happened, not knowing what the outcome would be, nor when. It played out ever almost four years and involved, literally, hundreds of people—from close family and friends to school teachers and medical staffs at Sloan Kettering in New York and the National Institute of Health in Maryland. What follows is the story as it was originally posted:

**Original Introduction:**

The daughter of a close friend of mine has been fighting the cancer I gave Justin for just over two years now. Everything that Justin went through, Lisa went through first, diagnosed at 16. She is now 18. It started with a tumor on her wrist, she was treated at Sloan Kettering, she and her mother stayed at Ronald McDonald House in NYC. Her hair fell out, she was desperately sick. She lost a third of her body weight. She went through depression and astounding physical pain. She still graduated high school with honors, working with tutors because she was too sick to attend class. Accepted to college, she was forced to defer attendance when her own remission ended with the discovery of four new tumors in her lungs and breasts. The tumors in her lungs are inoperable; she faces a possible double mastectomy after Christmas. She is back in chemo and radiation now, the hair which had begun to grow back is now gone again. And yes, she really did apologize when she fell asleep during chemo when some of us went to see her after donating platelets.

Obviously, this is more than just a story to me and I debated about how to end it—a miracle cure for a happy ending or an angst filled death scene? Both are cheap in this case and I opt to do neither. The story continues as events warrent it.

**Remission**

The last year has been Hell.

I mean really Hell—not just your few bad days strung together or something. I mean the whole year, every single fucking day from the minute that you wake up in the morning to the minute you fall asleep at night, day after day, week after week and month after month until I looked back and realized that an entire year of my life had been as much of a nightmare as anyone can imagine.

Yeah, I know. I'm a drama queen up there with the best of them, but this time I'm just telling the honest to shit truth.

Fuck.

It had started about fourteen months ago when I noticed that Justin had started favoring his right wrist again. At first I'd thought that he was having some residual problems from the bashing, but he denied it and insisted that it really didn't hurt.

Really—it didn't.

But there was this lump and it just sort of sat there and seemed to get bigger while you looked at it until finally, around Labor Day, it had gotten as big as maybe a ping pong ball and I told him that if he didn't go to a fucking doctor, I'd drag him there myself.

The first doctor was his primary—you know, the good old GP—and he prodded it and pressed it and shit, then sent him for an x-ray. After he looked at that he suggested that Justin might see a specialist, maybe an orthopedist he could recommend. So we did that, we made another appointment to see the new doctor and I even drove Justin over because he was pissing and moaning about how long it would take and it didn't even hurt and he had things to do. We still didn't get it at that point—neither of us did—we just thought that it might be a gangling or a keltoid or something that was an annoyance but no big deal.

That's when the orthopedist told us that she thought that it would be a good idea to run some tests on the thing. That's when I started getting this feeling in the back of my brain, a sort of prickling that this might be something important and that I couldn't allow Justin to let it slide like he sort of wanted to. I called and made the Goddamned appointment myself and drove him to the doctor's so they could get a sample. From there it was biopsies and after a couple of days, well actually it was almost a week so that it could be cultured, they called my work number since Justin's cel needed recharging and there was no one at the loft. They really scoured to find a phone number with a person on the other end to get me at Vanguard and out of a meeting. I came on the line, after politely excusing myself from the clients for a minute and listened while the nurse politely suggested that Mr. Taylor should make an appointment so that the doctor could go over some test results with him. They would make room for him today—could I have him there at two?

Shit.

Fuck.

Everyone knows what that means. Oh, sure, they couched it in terms and phrases about how they weren't allowed to discuss results over the phone and it all just had to do with the new privacy laws and shit like that, but everyone knows what it means when they want you to come in to talk to the doctor.

It means that you're in deep shit.

I called him at school, right in the middle of Concepts of Design, and told him that I wanted to take him out to lunch and so have his cherry ass outside in half an hour. He complained and said that he had class and had to be there, why couldn't I make it dinner? I gave him some bullshit about how I was pissed about some client and needed some stress management—that's one of our codes for 'let's fuck'—and he, ever the dutiful boyfriend, caved.

So I picked him up, took him out to the diner where he knows everyone and where I knew he'd be able to relax before the fucking shoe dropped then told him that we had a stop to make before we could get to the stress relief. We just had to stop at the doctor's to pick up the results and then we could get on with the business at hand.

I was such a Goddamned coward—Jesus.

He looked at me with those big blue eyes and he was so happy and I couldn't be the one to break it to him that he was fucked without lube.

I just couldn't do it.

So we got to the office and the nurse gave us this look like she was really sorry and said that she'd tell the doctor that Mr. Taylor was there. In about two minutes she opened the door and invited him in. He got this look on his face, like he knew that something was going down—and not in a positive, life affirming way—and looked back at me. I knew that he was suddenly frightened and I wished I could make it go away and not be what I knew it was. He sort of took a breath, reached for my hand and just said, "Come on."

I followed him into the private office.

The doctor was professional and kind and explained to him, to us, told him—told us—that it was malignant. She had been in contact with a few of her colleagues and they had a course of treatment they could suggest.

She had the name of a good oncologist she could recommend.

If we wanted a second opinion, she would understand and could give us names for that, too.

She seemed so damned sorry.

Shit.

Justin went pale, paler than he normally is, and started breathing hard with his mouth slightly opened, like he'd just been punched in the stomach—which, of course, he had. His fingers were still locked around mine and he seemed unable to process at just that moment so I asked the expected questions.

It was in the early stages, as far as they could tell right now. It was an aggressive form and they suggested an aggressive approach to treatment—both radiation and chemo to start as soon as was feasible.

He'd probably need a medical leave from school.

There were good treatment centers in Pittsburgh, but he might want to consider relocating to New York—Sloan Kettering was really the leader in the field.

They couldn't handle it here; he had to go to the specialists. That was what they were saying, that was what they meant—they couldn't deal with it and we would have to go elsewhere to get him help, if help could be had.

She was sure that the oncologist would be happy to make the needed calls.

I don't think there's a word in the English language that's any fucking scarier than 'cancer'.

You go cold, and you go numb and you think it's a Goddamned nightmare and it's not real or it's a mistake. It has to be a mistake—but you know it isn't.

God, and poor Justin. He was barely nineteen when that happened and he looked like—he looked like he'd just been handed a death sentence and no amount of reassurance that it was early yet and there were lot's of treatments available and he was young and strong and all that other crap they tell you—he looked like he wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and so did I.

It was some weird, rare kind of cancer, not even your run-of-the-mill they know what to do with it and you'll be fine after a few months of puking cancer. It was cancer of the muscles.

Muscle cancer. Whoever heard of that one?

Jesus.

OK, you want to know what you do? The first thing you do is denial—can't be happening, can't be. I want a second opinion from someone who doesn't have their head up their ass.

OK, you get the second opinion and it's the same as the first and then you have to start dealing.

So we thanked the doctor, took the card with the name and number of the oncologist on it along with the time for the appointment they had made and went out to the car. I held him against the fender as he held onto me like I was some Goddamned life preserver that could save him from drowning in whatever the fuck was about to swallow him up.

He let go after a couple of minutes, though and said that, if it was OK with me, could we just go home?

He didn't cry.

I think he was beyond it, and so was I.

I drove us back to the loft, neither of saying anything, him with his head turned away from me, looking out the window.

We went upstairs and he walked up to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

I thought that he wanted to be alone to cry or something, but after a couple of minutes I heard the toilet flush and he came back out to sit next to me on the couch. I put my arm around his shoulder and he held my hand, leaning into me.

"I don't want anyone to know until we find out what's really going on."

I almost told him that he should tell his parents, but didn't. They would learn when he was ready. It was his decision, this was his show.

"Alright."

We just sat there for a long time, not talking because we both knew what we would say. He knew, we both knew, that we would fight this together, that it would probably be awful, that there was a chance that he might not win and that in a day everything had fucking changed forfuckingever.

We didn't bother turning on the lights when it started getting dark, we just sat there, quietly, until he broke the silence and hit the Goddamned bulls eye for both of us.

"I'm scared."

"I know. I am, too."

Then he cried.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

**It Begins**

It Begins 

To start with there were the tests, the endless fucking tests.

Blood tests, bone marrow tests, MRI's, CAT's, urinalysis, x-rays, ultrasounds—you name it and it was done.

It was decided that the best course of treatment would be to install a shunt—a semi-permanently installed hookup for the IV in Justin's chest so that he could be plugged into the tubes more easily. He had been accepted for treatment at Sloan Kettering in New York like the first few doctors had wanted and his care would now be under a Doctor Ortiz. We were told that he was a thirty-year veteran and one of the top men in his field.

I hoped to fuck they were right.

I'd been checking the net for whatever I could find about what he had and it scared the shit out of me.

There are some cancers that you can get that you know that you have a decent survival rate, you know that you have a fighting chance. Breast cancer if it's caught early, some of the skin cancers weren't too bad if you were lucky, even a few types of leukemia were doable…but this one was a mother. If someone had decided to stack some fucking deck against Justin, this would have been one of the trump cards to play.

Fuck me.

So what does Justin have? Rhabdomyosarcoma. That's what it's called and I know it's a mouthful and a half. It's a soft tissue cancer and we were told that it's the most common childhood cancer but don't look so fucking smug. You can get it any time. It starts in the muscles and spreads from there. It's aggressive. If you hit remission you can almost count on it to reappear. If it's in a limb and the leg or whatever is amputated, it can still come back. Some people have it ten years or more before it's diagnosed, some two year olds have it. It's cancer. It sucks.

It starts with one mutated cell. The one cell becomes millions and then billions and then—well, then you're pretty much screwed.

Life expectancy is generally about five years with this one.

OK, I'm not a complete asshole. Justin doesn't know that last part but he's a smart fuck and can use the Internet as well as anyone can. If he doesn't know it now, he will soon enough.

He doesn't want to deal with his father and the thought of having the rest of the 'family' know is more than he can think about right now.

Me, too.

Jesus, can you picture the look on Deb's face when she hears that Sunshine has the big C?

Christ, I sound like John Wayne.

Fuck. So he spoke to his school about a medical leave and they weren't a problem—about that. They'd hold his place, all best wishes, please get well, keep us informed, we'll be praying for you and all that shit. A refund for the semester's tuition? Well, you're too far along into the work for that. Credit? Well, we're really not far enough along for you to have full credit for the courses—that wouldn't be fair to the students who'll be here, now would it?

Take the money and give nothing back.

Fuckers.

Then there was the night, almost after the first week was over and we were still digesting it all, when I realized that he had to tell his mother.

I was sitting at the computer and I looked over at him watching Yellow Submarine for the ten millionth time and he looked like he was about twelve years old. His knees were drawn up against him, he had an old blanket pulled up and he looked so—solemn, I guess is the word I want.

He was nineteen years old and the last year of his life had been fucking hospitals and physical therapists and when that was finally, finally behind him…shit. Round two.

He couldn't break it to Jennifer. No, no fucking way. He couldn't.

But he had to—or I did.

I did. I had to tell her. She had to know.

Justin wasn't a minor, but he was a full time student covered under his mother's health insurance policy. She'd be getting letters and calls from Blue Cross about the bills that would be coming in.

She had to know before she was blindsided by it.

I'd have to tell her for him.

Shit.

We hadn't seen Jennifer in a month or six weeks. The school year was just starting up and we were all busy. Molly was starting her first year of high school, Jen was working, Justin and I were doing our thing. We'd been meaning to get together but just hadn't had time. I guess that both sides were half expecting a call from the other, so she wasn't completely surprised when she picked up the phone at work and I asked if she'd mind if I stopped over after work that evening. Say, around six or so?

Sure, of course—you two are coming for dinner? No, just me.

She sounded a little taken aback that I wanted to see her without Justin being along—it wasn't like I hung out with her or anything, but she probably thought I wanted to talk about Craig the asshole picking up some of the PIFA bills or something.

She was smiling when she opened the door.

"Brian, come in. Have you eaten? I was just about to take the casserole out of the oven." She turned to the stairs. "Molly? Dinner in fifteen minutes."

"No, I'm fine, thanks." I took off my jacket and was suddenly sorry that I was still dressed for the office, all Armanied and silk tie. It was so—formal and I didn't want to intimidate her.

Christ. Listen to me.

"Can I get you something to drink?" She was pouring herself a diet soda.

"No, thanks."

Maybe there was something in my voice or my demeanor, I don't know, but I could see her warning signals going off. Something was wrong and it was wrong enough for me to come out here to suburbia to discuss it with her.

"Is Justin alright?" She probably thought we'd broken up or something, maybe we'd had a fight or he'd dumped me again.

Cut to the fucking chase, why don't you? I'd been trying to think how I would say this, what phrases I could use to try to make it a little easier but there wasn't anything. An anvil is an anvil whether it catches you offside you or hits you right in the face.

I think I took a breath and then just jumped in.

"There's a problem, he has a problem." I hoped that she would say something, but she just looked at me with these enormous eyes. She knew it was bad if it had me stammering.

"He has a tumor on his wrist, well it's really his forearm." I was babbling. "The doctors have done tests." Jesus, I was shoving a knife into her and watching her bleed. "It's malignant."

"What?" She froze and sounded like I was speaking another language and she couldn't understand what I was saying, that it didn't make any sense. I knew what that was like. A couple of days ago I was as illiterate as she was now. Whatever she thought was coming—this wasn't it.

"He has cancer. The tests have been confirmed and treatment is starting on Monday."

"Treatment?" I was still speaking fucking Swahili as far as she was concerned. "Cancer?"

"Radiation and chemo. They want to start as soon as possible."

"But—What kind of cancer? How advanced is it? When did you find out—how?" She was as white as Justin had been. "Monday? This is Thursday. How can they start so quickly?"

I told her what she asked, if not what she wanted to know. I didn't know if he'd get better. I wish to shit I did know, but the doctors were too used to dealing with this to give false hope. Justin would have seen through that and they would have lost any hope of cooperation from him from then on. They told him the truth. It would be an uphill fight, they'd do the best they could but there were no guarantees.

"Jennifer, Justin didn't want you to know at first. He didn't want you to have to go through it. He didn't want anyone to know until he knew more about it and no one does know—OK? Don't tell them. It's important to him right now. He wants to do this himself—with me. He has to do this the way he wants to." Babbling again.

She looked another question at me. I went on. "He's under your insurance policy. They might give you shit about some of the treatment. If they do, I'll fight them for you. You had to know before the bills started coming in. It's going to be expensive" Like that fucking mattered.

She was still just staring at me when Molly came in for dinner. She caught the mood the second she walked through the door, even if she didn't know what was going on. She stood next to me—she's always been in my corner, even when Justin was with Ethan and I didn't think we'd get back together.

Molly was the only Taylor who called me then—she would call me to help her with her math or her soccer drills and use it as an excuse to hang out together and keep me up on what was happening with her brother. I looked forward to it every Saturday. The rest of her family didn't know.

"Did you and Justin break up again?" That was the worst thing she could imagine.

"No. We're good"

Jennifer sort of woke up and asked if I would mind giving Molly her dinner—she was tired, had an awful headache and would like to lie down.

I ate a tune casserole with Justin's sister that night and all we talked about was soccer until we were loading the dishes into the washer.

"Justin is sick, isn't he?"

"You were listening."

"You can hear anything people are saying in the kitchen if you stand at the top of the stairs by the door. Is he going to die?"

There was no point in bullshitting her. She was a kid, but she was as smart as Justin was and she'd find out soon enough anyway. "I don't know." That was too blunt even for me. "He's seeing good doctors."

"But you guys just got back together."

"We're together."

The fucker wasn't that she started crying then—I'd sort of expected that she would cry. The fucker, the thing that got me was that she put her arms around my waist and held on while I let her cry herself out and I had this thought that I'd be doing this a lot the next few months—or longer, and the selfish, asshole Kinney side of me wanted to know who the fuck was going to hold me when I needed it?

I used to count on Justin for that support system, and Mikey before that, but Justin had enough to deal with now and Mikey had Ben. Besides—I didn't want Mikey for this. I wanted—fuck, I wanted Justin to be the one to help me but he was going to need me to hold him up and that mattered more.

Molly was still holding onto me but her crying was down to hiccupping. I rubbed her back and gave her this load of crap pep talk about how she had to help her Mom and all of that shit, that I was counting on her to help her mother. She nodded and asked if she could call him, that she hadn't seen him in a while and she wanted to tell him that she had some of his old teachers and they'd been asking about him. I told her to keep the cancer a secret between us for now, that Justin didn't want to have to cope with everyone's reactions until he had a handle on it himself and she nodded, understanding.

She's a smart little fuck.

"It's really bad, isn't it?"

I remember nodding to her and was going to leave to get home to Justin when the whole Goddamned thing hit me while I was standing there in Jennifer's kitchen with Justin's little sister looking at me with pity, feeling sorry for me, and I could feel the cracks starting. I remember taking a breath, trying to center myself and just fucking completely failing and leaning over the counter with my face in my hands and breaking down. The thought "fucking faggot" went through my mind and I didn't care and then I realized that Molly was trying to hug me, holding onto me as tightly as she could and saying the same shit I'd been saying to her a few minutes before. She was telling me that it would be alright and that Justin needed me and that he loved me and all of that crap I knew and then it hit me that this child was the only one I could break down with because—because she wouldn't think I was a twat or a pansy or any of that.

Because she knew that I loved her brother and I was scared out of my Goddamned mind and I couldn't fall apart with him so she let me do what I had to and never told anyone that I stood and cried in her mother's kitchen.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

OK, I've done a lot of research on the medical end of this, talked to a lot of people, but I'm not a doctor or a nurse and I'm lucky enough to have never gone through this myself. I'll probably make some mistakes in the details and if you notice any, please let me know. The gist of this is fairly accurate, though.

Oh, and Ronald McDonald House? It's listed as one of the top 100 charities in the US. It's real and it's good and it's a saving grace to a lot of families.

**Treatment Begins**

We got to New York on Sunday, around three in the afternoon and found where we were staying with no problem. The directions were good, but then they'd been giving them out for years.

When we were driving across the George Washington Bridge I started thinking about the last time I'd done that—driven the bridge, I mean. It was the time Justin had run away with my credit card after the loft was robbed. Fuck me, I'd been as pissed as I'd ever been that day and I took it out of his ass. And in his ass.

Literally.

This time I just wanted it to be like that day was, pissed, knowing I'd find the twat, the hot fuck he'd planned all along and then the drive back with him knowing that his butt was mine, at least for a while.

Jennifer had driven with us to help us get settled and to reassure herself that her son would be in the best possible hands.

Some strings had been pulled and we would be allowed to stay at Ronald McDonald House just a couple of blocks up from the main buildings of Sloan Kettering and if I believed in God I'd thank him for that favor.

I'm not sure what the age cutoff is for RMDH, but I'm pretty sure that Justin was beyond it by a couple of years. He's a kid, a college kid, but it's for the younger crowd really—really young kids through high school. It's for kids and their families to stay in during cancer treatment—a place where they can live and not be pointed out as freaks or sickies by anyone who happened by and I was happy as a pig in shit that they were going to let us stay.

Y'see, I didn't fucking know this before but when you're in treatment—in chemo or radiation—you can be an outpatient a lot of the time. You go in to the hospital early in the morning, they plug you in and six or eight hours later you can go away until tomorrow.

When I heard that the doctor's had somehow gotten us in—there's usually a waiting list—I was pretty embarrassed. I mean, just the name is enough to cause some major cringing but I did a shit load of research on the place and I was a convert pretty Goddamned fast, believe me.

A family (that's me and Justin) could stay there for twenty dollars a night and if that's too much the fees are waived. You get a bed room with a private bath, a shared kitchen where you do your own cooking and you get to know that you're not alone fighting the monster you're engaged with. They bring in anyone they can think of who might get the kids minds off of where they are and what they do all day—Bruce Springsteen stopped by unannounced one night while we were hanging out, posed with the kids and sang a couple of songs. He's a decent guy. They had the make-up people from Bloomingdale's doing makeovers on the girls. There were crafts and music and a saltwater aquarium to watch. They have terraces and videos and a library. They have quiet and a dining room where you can talk to people who are going through what you are. Some people stay for a week, some stay for six or eight months. Some are local, some come from Christ knows where because when your kid is sick you do whatever the fuck you have to do.

Thank God for the place.

You know those boxes they have on the counters when you go in for fries and a Big Mac? Put your change in them, OK? It's a fucking good deal.

I mean it. Throw in a couple of Goddamned quarters.

Anyway, so we get there and we get out bags up to our room and they were nice and helpful and all that shit. We got the tour and they showed us how to get to Sloan from where we were then they suggested a couple of places to eat dinner that were close by and not too much money.

I was watching Jenn and she looked like shit, let me tell you and when Jennifer Taylor doesn't look perfect you know that it's time to hold the presses. She had these circles under her eyes and she didn't eat much. Her conversation veered from trivia about things like the laundry and asking detailed questions about his treatment and what we could expect over the next few months.

She was close to losing it—closer even than when Justin was in the Goddamned coma. That time it was like she could focus her anger at me or Hobbs or the press hounding her—this time there was no one to blame.

It was just bad luck.

The dinner done, we went back to the room, Jennifer stopping to see about some arrangements or other that she wanted clarified so Justin and I went upstairs alone.

We walked through the area they called the living—there were families there pretending that they were having a good time, that there was nothing grotesque about ten year olds in bathrobes and no hair playing Monopoly or Tomb Raider, that it was just a normal evening back at the ranch.

And Justin—God, Justin. He was quiet and trying not to be scared but he was scared to death. He knew that the treatment would be Hell and he knew there was no getting around it. He knew that there was a chance that he would lose his hand—they'd been talking about the possibility of having to amputate if they couldn't contain the tumor—or that the tumor would spread and that the best case scenario was that he would go through months of a fucking living nightmare and then, he might have to go through it all again with no promises that it would accomplish anything.

And he was worried about me. Did I tell you that? He was afraid that I would get tired of taking care of him, that I would lose patience with not having fucking marathons, that I'd find someone who wasn't sick to take his place, that I'd lose my job.

He was afraid that he would lose his hair and look like shit. He was afraid that I wouldn't want to be seen with him. He was afraid that I'd be tricking and had even said that he thought that I should so I could get some stress relief.

He was afraid that he would lose me.

He was afraid that he'd be a burden, that he wasn't worth it. He was afraid that his mother would try to take over, that he'd become infantilized by his disease.

He was afraid that he'd be alone.

He was afraid that he was going to die.

So was I.

So we got up to the room and I was about to suggest that he/we take a shower to relax us both—what I meant was that we would fuck, obviously—and he just gave me this look and I remember opening my arms and just holding him for like fucking ever. He didn't cry and neither did I, but we both knew that this was when it really started. Tomorrow we'd go down a couple of blocks and he'd be put on the Goddamned treadmill and it's like when they spin the wheel—where she stops, nobody knows, folks.

I moved us to the bathroom and got his clothes off of him and got the water going, but once we were in there it just continued like it had in the outer room. I just stood there with the water beating down on us holding him and there wasn't anything sexual about it, for once.

By the time he was ready to let go, we could hear his mother moving around through the door and he gave me this look like—shit, she's sleeping here and I knew that he would have liked for us to be alone so he would be able to do or say whatever came into his mind tonight.

And I knew with his mother three feet away, he wouldn't be able to let out whatever he had to and I knew that I couldn't ask her to leave and that he'd just have to suck it up tonight, no matter how he felt.

Shit. One more thing that bit the big one.

There were two beds in the room and Jen was going to take one that night with Justin and me in the other. I didn't care. I mean, shit—this wasn't what you'd call a sensual situation or anything and I was pretty fucking tired but when I came out of the bathroom, glanced at her and got into bed with her son she had this look on her face like it was finally real—I mean that Justin and I slept together regularly, like she used to with Craig, and I think that was a revelation to her, too.

She knew—she's known for years that we were lovers, but to watch me pull back the sheets and get in next to Justin was a dose of real life that I think she'd managed to block out for way the fuck too long.

Tough shit.

He curled into my arms and I held him with his mother a couple feet away and that's how we slept that first night.

We had to be up at six thirty the next morning to get down the street by eight so that they could run a few more tests and get him started on the first round of chemo.

He was scared as shit, we all were, but we all pretended that this would be a good thing, that it was just a trip to the doctor and that it would be OK.

Christ.

We went down First Ave to—shit, was it 61st or 62nd?—well, whatever—the cross street that the entrance for the Pediatric wing in on, found the elevators and got to the third floor.

There had been a debate about whether to treat him with the kids or the adults and, Christ knows why, but they opted for the Pediatric wing.

Whatever, so long as they gave him what he needed they could have treated him in the department of veterinary science for all I cared.

They were expecting us, just like a good hotel, everyone was introduced—the nurses and the various techs and doctors. There were a shit load of them, like you couldn't believe that there were so fucking people who did this sort of shit day in and day out.

They were so Goddamned matter of fact about it, just another day at work.

A couple of hours later Justin had given samples of blood and urine, they'd been run through some lab and he was recovering in a small room from having a shunt installed in his chest so that they could begin the chemo in a couple of days.

That's a sort of plug so that they don't have to keep sticking his veins—his form of treatment would involve an IV drip. You can also get chemo in pill form. Christ, who the Hell knew that? They could just plug him in like a garden hose.

That was Monday.

Jenn left later that day, she had to get back to Molly but it was killing her to have to leave Justin and it was killing him to have her there. Every time he looked at her he saw what it was doing to her and—fuck—he just didn't need it.

She was trying. Shit knows she was trying, but she was dying inside and she didn't have the Kinney denial genes to hide that fact. I suppose that an argument could be made that she had the WASP genes to take their place and you'd have a good case, but Catholic repression beats just about anything anyone else has going, at least in my book.

So, it was just him and me and cancer after that.

OK, sure, Jenn called all the time and by then the family knew that something was up so they were trying to get in touch, too, but Justin and I were the only ones who were actually there.

I'd brought my laptop, of course, so we had e-mail and there was so much from everyone demanding to know what was going on that I finally had to call Jennifer a couple of days later and ask her if she would have everyone over or meet them at the diner or something and just let them know the score and tell them to just leave us the fuck alone.

Send cards if they wanted, fine, sure, whatever, but neither of us had the time or the energy to handle their shit, no matter how well intentioned it was.

She did it and I guess that you could have heard a fucking pin drop at Deb's over a pasta dinner when she broke the news but it had to be done.

And my Goddamned job? That wasn't as big a problem as I thought that it would be.

You see, when you're a Goddamned partner and haven't taken a vacation in five years you can take an emergency leave for a family crisis when you have to.

Gardner dropped some hints that since Justin wasn't actually listed on my benefits as a domestic partner he could have denied me the time, but when I—tactfully—pointed out that I was going whether he approved or not and that if he gave me shit I'd use the time in New York to do some job hunting he backed down pretty fucking fast.

I never said he was stupid.

Then I suggested that I would be able to spend at least some time courting clients there and he practically beamed. I fucking love it when Gardner flushes with excitement—his head turns red.

It's pretty funny.

OK, so the shunt was in and they let him have two days to get used to it before they started the hardcore shit.

To shrink the tumor in his arm they used direct radiation and because an arm isn't a vital organ, they even smeared some kind of grease on the area to really concentrate the rays and burn the crap out of his arm. They did that every day.

They tumor started to go down.

Then his hand froze into some kind of a claw because if the burning and the nerve damage and they had to use some morphine derivative to kill the pain when they straightened it out for him.

That was bad.

He was also started on the chemo drip and you'd think that would be pretty dramatic and all kinds of Doctor Killdare types rushing in and out but it's actually pretty boring.

Justin would go into this small room on the third floor that had two beds and no window. Sometimes there would be someone in the other bed, sometimes there wouldn't. He just wore his regular street clothes, but he did take his shoes off.

WASP training—no shoes on the bed.

The tech would bring in an IV bag and some tubes and they'd hook him up to the thing and he'd just lay there for six or seven hours. Sometimes he'd nod off, sometimes he'd read. Sometimes we'd talk. Occasionally he'd talk on the phone to Daphne or someone.

That was how the day would be spent, Monday through Friday, two weeks on, two weeks off the chemo.

The radiation would go in cycles and between the cycles—or during if need be—he'd be evaluated to see how it was all working.

The treatments began to wipe him out.

We knew that his hair would fall out, and it did. Clumps of it on the pillow in the morning and in the comb and going down the drain.

He started a collection of hats and caps, partly to hide the fact that he was bald and partly just to stay warm.

He lost his appetite and threw up all the time.

He lost weight.

He slept almost nonstop and one of the things I learned about the treatment was that the chemo killed his immune system so he needed blood transfusions and infusions of platelets. I started spending time down at the Sloan Kettering blood bank and got to know the people there pretty well. They told me that my platelet count was high—over 400, so I would be allowed to give almost three units, but I could only donate every three weeks.

After the chemo treatments his count was down to six or eight.

That meant that he had roughly the clotting capacity of a hemophiliac.

Fuck me, the things you learn when you have to.

You want to know what killed me? I mean, do you want to know what really just fucking floored me?

Justin, the world's premier drama queen was so Goddamned sick that he couldn't keep anything down, couldn't keep his eyes open, couldn't walk twenty yards with out resting and he apologized that he wasn't good company.

I mean, fucking excuse me?

He's lying on a Goddamned bed with tubes siphoning poison into his bloodstream and he's telling me he's sorry that he's falling asleep.

I swear to God. I'll never complain about anything again in my life, as long as I live.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Treadmill  
**

So the chemo and the radiation had been going on for a couple of months by now and then the doctors decided that Justin still wasn't having quite enough fun.

They wanted surgery.

They wanted to schedule the removal of some of his lymph nodes.

It seems that the nodes are one of the first places cancer cells migrate to and so you just get rid of them—or as many as is feasible, anyway. They're like in your neck, your armpits, your groin—places like that. Oh, they're probably other places, too, but those would be good for a start.

They started by going in and removing the nodes in his left armpit since the main tumor was on his left arm. He was still in recovery, still asleep when the doctor—Ortiz—came in and told me that the initial biopsy was positive. The cancer had spread to his nodes.

That meant that he was at least stage two out of four stages and—shit, there's no way to make it sound like it's good.

OK, crash course: Stage one, the cancer is contained in one location, like a lung or a breast or an arm. Stage two; it's spread to surrounding, nearby lymph nodes. Stage three; it's in lymph nodes far away from the original site. So, say in Justin if the original cancer was in his arm, the nodes in his groin or some place would be infected. Stage four, fuck me, that's when the cancer has advanced beyond the nodes and spread to other organs. Then you're pretty much fucked, as far as I can tell. OK, sure there are always miracles but basically you're pretty much screwed.

He was stage two and they were running tests to see if he was stage three. He told me that they'd know the results in a few days.

Shit.

He also told me again—in case I didn't get it—that this was an aggressive form of cancer and was known to do this.

Gee, thanks, doc. I wouldn't have thought of that, what with having no medical degree. It wouldn't have occurred to me that maybe, just maybe Justin was fighting against a stacked deck and even if the treatment was a success, the patient still might die.

He was down to like one hundred and fifteen pounds. Now, shit, I know he's not that big, but he was still like one-fifty when this started. His hair is gone, even his eyebrows and his pubes and his eyelashes.

He has sores in his mouth that are so bad he can hardly eat and when he does he throws up.

Want to know what he had for Thanksgiving? We'd gone back to Pittsburgh for the weekend and his mother had this big traditional dinner with all of his favorites cooked the way he liked them.

He spent most of the day lying on the couch, sleeping most of the time and covered by this down comforter that he likes because it's light but really warm. He's taken to wearing an old pair of sweats with a thermal shirt—in fact he has them in a rainbow or colors—along with a knit hat partly to hide his head and partly to stay warm.

I haven't even teased him about his stunning ensams, but he knows that they make me cringe. I mean, fuck me. I know he has cancer, but if he has to wear sweats, at least let them be Polo. OK, finally he agreed to cab over to Madison Avenue, to the Ralph Lauren store there and let me buy him a few pairs pissing and moaning the whole time.

But I digress.

Thanksgiving dinner? He ate a deviled egg. One. That was it. The he fell asleep again.

Molly found me after everyone had left upstairs in his old room. Partly I was looking around to see if there was anything that he might like to take with him, partly I didn't want to wake him up just yet and partly I needed to get away from everything and be by myself for a bit.

She came in and told me that she thought that I looked like I was tired—I was thinner than usual and I had these circles under my eyes and she said that I just looked like I was getting beaten down and, fuck me, I just sat on the bed with her beside me and told her the truth that I'd been keeping to myself since the whole Goddamned thing started.

I was beat and I was tired and it sucked and I knew that Justin was going through worse shit than I could really imagine, but I wasn't sure—I didn't honestly know—how much more I could take and that made me feel like a real asshole because he was the one puking and in pain and looking at forever being a lot shorter than he had a right to hope for.

She was really good with that. Especially when you consider that we were talking about her brother. I think she didn't know what to say—who would?—and so she just held my hand and said something about how he was counting on me, leaning on me and that when it all started he had told Jen that he thought that it would be better if she stayed in Pittsburgh with Molly. Jenn had freaked, of course, then they argued about whether or not I should be the one who would stay with him in New York.

Justin was against it, really against it because he said that he couldn't do that to me but since it was the only way Jenn would stay with Molly, he had finally agreed. She told me that later that night she had called him at the loft and told him that he was being an asshole, that I wanted to be with him, that she had heard me and Jenn talking in the kitchen when I'd gone to break the diagnosis to her. That call was what made him agree to have me with him. He'd wanted me all along; he just couldn't ask me to go through it.

She told me that he'd said that he didn't think he'd be able to stand it if I wasn't there.

Fuck me.

I knew he'd been arguing about my needing to stay at work and all of that crap, but he was just giving me an out in case I wanted it.

Damn.

Then she said that Justin had told her last night that he knew I was suffering and it was hard for him to watch.

He can't even take a crap without agony because of something they don't advertise—a little thing called anal fissures and if you think that sounds like fun you're a butt load sicker than Justin is…and he's worried about me.

Shit, this is getting maudlin.

You want to know what almost made me burst out laughing? Alright, fine, I know it wasn't funny, but the doctor, Mr. Hotshit Cancer Specialist told me that it was a good thing that Justin had banked a bunch of his sperm before all the treatments started because the radiation can make you sterile.

Well—yeah. I'm sure that's foremost in his mind right about now.

You know, we did get one bit of actual good news.

When the students at PIFA had found out about Justin being sick so they held—were holding—a series of blood and platelet drives for him. It's better, less of an adjustment for an already stressed body to get donations from the same group of people if it's at all possible. They'd been doing this since the chemo and shit started and we were just finding out.

When your friends bleed for you, literally, that's pretty damn good.

But then he has that effect on people.

Well, so we're in New York City, the greatest city in the world. (Don't give me shit on this point because you'll make no ground with me. Just accept it as a fact.) We're in New York and we have some time to ourselves everyday.

OK, a lot of that time we have is spend with him throwing up and sleeping and just generally feeling like crap, but there are the relative good days when Justin can almost function.

Oh, did I tell you I found this wheelchair for him? He'd gotten some sores on his feet from the radiation or something and he can only wear slippers and he gets too tired to walk, so I found this iridescent purple wheelchair that folds up and everything. As such things go, it's pretty good.

Anyway, so we had New York to explore and when he had the energy to deal, we did.

The first thing he wanted to see, no shit, were some of the museums.

We saw this exhibit of motorcycles at the Guggenheim that was pretty cool—they had like a hundred of the fuckers lined up on that big spiral ramp and they was frigging amazing—colors and paint jobs and chrome like a dyke would cream for.

We caught this big show of photographs by Richard Avedon at the Met that blew me away. Everything was black and white and every Goddamned portrait was pretty much straight on against a white background and they were fucking amazing. He somehow crawled inside and showed you just who those fuckers really were.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. While we were at the Met that time we went down to the cafeteria to get some lunch. It's a cafeteria, a line with trays then you go over to a table—sort of a classier version of high school. So we were starting to eat and I'd forgotten some silverware. Justin got up to get a drink of water. When we both got back to the table like thirty seconds later there was a note written on a napkin sitting at Justin's place. It was short and said that the person who'd written it was a cancer survivor and that her thoughts would be with Justin.

You know, that's the sort of fucking sentiment that I'd normally use to blow my nose in, but for some reason it got to me and I told Justin that I had to take a leak so I could walk away for a minute.

That was a pretty good day. After lunch we found our way to the American wing and they have this fucking huge room that's glass on one entire wall, looking out to Central Park. The room, a sculpture garden, has to be a hundred by fifty and has stuff by Henry Moore and Rodin and Degas sitting around in plantings with these brick paths and wood benches. One entire side is the façade of a two story house. There are Tiffany windows mounted here and there, it's quiet and I fell in love with the place.

I sat back on one of the benches with Justin in his chair beside me. We were holding hands and his eyes were closed. He looked content, surrounded by the art and the blue skies outside. His color was pretty good that day and we'd had a good time.

We just sat there, not saying much, for about an hour then he got tired and we headed back.

When we got to our room there was a message, call Dr, Ortiz.

I did.

The results were in.

He was stage three.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

The Other Side 

So I'm nineteen years old and I have cancer and I may not see twenty and even if I do there's no way to know if I'll make it to twenty-one.

It really sucks, as Brian would say, and as he probably does say when he doesn't think I can hear.

I was diagnosed when I was nineteen. I had started my second year of college and it was going pretty well—after the shit with Stockwell and getting fired from the internship at Vanguard had finally settled down and Brian got his job back and I was reinstated.

Weird, isn't it? I mean, at the time getting kicked out of school for six months and Brian being out of work and broke seemed like it was about a crappy as it could get—aside from the fact that we were together again and solid—that was fucking great, but then the other shoe kind of dropped and here we are in deep shit.

You know that old quote from John Lennon? The one about how life is what happens when you're making other plans?

Well, that's pretty much what happened and it pretty much bites.

It started with this kind of thing on my wrist. I thought it was nothing, just a strain or something and it didn't even hurt or anything, but it was there and it didn't go away and then it started getting bigger. I'd gotten this cough, too, one that I couldn't shake, but I'm always getting colds so that was no big shit.

So Brian made me go to the fucking doctor when he noticed the lump and the doctor made me go to another doctor for more tests and that doctor was the one who let me know that she suspected that there might be a problem and we needed another test and that was the one—almost a month after the whole Goddamned thing started, that was the one that let us know that we had a problem.

I almost said that I have a problem, but Brian made it clear from day one that he wasn't going to do let me do this alone—like I fucking wanted to, asshole—and so we had a problem.

My Mom assumed that she would be the one to deal with all the crap, but—fuck me—she has Molly and her new job and the condo and all of that. And she wouldn't have been as good at this as Brian is, she'd already done her thing in hospitals after the bashing and I saw what it did to her.

No way that I'd let her go around that block again so the ball dropped in Brian's court.

You know, I really fell shitty about that. I mean, here I am going along being this cute, smart piece of ass and Brian and I were getting along great and things were finally good and he was back to work and Vance was off his back and then this gets dumped up his ass.

I tried to get him to let me do this, to not take on the big brother/guard dog/caretaker role but like Michael said—you might as well try to stop Starbucks. It wasn't like I wanted to do this alone or anything, I just really didn't want to be a burden to Brian.

That sounds so fucking heroic or something, but I really felt that way. I mean, he's had enough crap in his life; it wasn't like he needed me to add to the pile.

Christ, it was like after all the shit his life was finally, finally going along OK—he had his job back and Gus is doing great, Michael had started to live his own life enough so that Brian didn't have to keep pulling his nuts out of the fire every two minutes, Debbie was off his case, his mother, well, OK, she was still a fucking nightmare, but she was off his case after he told her to fuck off and we were, we were just so Goddamned good together.

We were solid and happy and knew that what we had might not be the stuff of fiftieth anniversaries or anything, but it was still pretty frigging good. He even almost came out and said that he loved me once. He did, honest to shit and I know he thinks of me as his boyfriend and I still love him.

You know, that's another thing.

OK, I'd been saying since like the minute that I met him that I was in love with him and I guess that I thought that I was, but when I look back at that—yeah, I know, all of two years—I know that I had this big fat crush on him and that I'd built him up to my idea of a perfect gay guy and what I wanted to be someday when I grew up. He was—is—smart and strong and handsome and tough and talented and confident and everyone wants him.

But then I started to clue into he fact that, yes, he was all those things. Mostly.

It's not even all that hard to figure out. When you spend the first fifteen or so years of your life with people telling you what a worthless piece of shit you are, that no one wants you, that they were waiting for the day you'd walk out and not bother coming back and then they back up the emotional and mental abuse with beatings—well, you get the picture.

It was the confidence that was the sham and he's really one of the most frightened people I know. It's a big cover up because he's scared to death that someone will figure out that he thinks that it's just a matter of time before someone discovers that it's all an act and the funny thing is that he knows that I have but he still lets me hang around.

Somehow he's OK with me knowing.

That was when I understood that he loves me.

Well anyway.

I was talking about how I have this fucking cancer and how it sucks and how I didn't want to dump it on Brian until I realized that not only was he the only person I thought I could stand to have around me now, but that he wanted to help.

I mean he really wanted to help. He wanted to be there for me and to run interference with the fucking insurance companies and the hospital and the family He wanted to make sure that I was warm enough and that I ate—when I could and he wanted to be the one to hold me at night and when I was puking ten times a day.

When his Dad was dying from cancer Brian didn't give two shits.

No, that's not true. He cared a lot, he just couldn't deal with it, neither of them could, so he stayed away until he got the call that it was all over.

With me he still may not be able to deal, but he's going to give it a Hell of a shot.

Fuck me—that's wrong. Whether he's able to deal or not, he's going to do it. He's decided that we're in this together, or as together it can be when only one of us is sick anyway, and come Hell or high water, he'll do it.

You know? I guess that I sort of thought in the back of my mind, that if something like this happened it would be the obvious, that Brian would end up with AIDS, but like John Lennon said…

So I've got this fucking cancer inside of me and everyone is trying to tell me that they'll do everything they can to take care of it, that the chemo and the radiation and the surgery and all that shit will be a bitch but the implication is that at the end of everything I'll be just as right as rain and a poster boy for the miracle of modern medicine.

Right.

I'm sick; I'm not a fuckin idiot.

I can surf the net as well as anyone can and I know the survival rate for what I have and it's pretty crappy. I know that there's a good chance that I'm going to lose and I'm scared out of my mind.

I'm nineteen years old and I don't want to die.

That's a simple sentence, but it sums the whole thing up.

The first thing that happens after you hear that you have cancer is simple—you're fucking scared out of your mind. I mean waking up in the middle if the night sweating and thinking that you should stay away from people in case they catch it from you or just not knowing how to deal with the reactions you get from everyone. That lasts a while, week or two or three and then—well I can only speak for myself, you sort of dig in and say 'OK, this is what we're dealing with. Let's do it.'

So we ended up in New York at Sloan Kettering and it's like being in a factory—now don't get me wrong, everyone is professional and good at what they do and even nice, but you know that there are literally thousands of people here, from infants up to geriatrics, and they're all fighting some form of cancer and some will live and some won't and then when they're gone they'll be replaced by someone else with the same thing and the new people will either live or die and they'll be replaced—you get the picture.

I'm a cog here, the blond kid in treatment room seven down the hall and on the right. I'm the one with the gay lover who's always around clearing the way for me so that I can just concentrate on what's happening to me.

That's OK. I don't care about that. I'm OK with being a cog. It makes it easier in a way, less personal, easier to detach yourself from what's happening.

It hurt when they put the shunt in. It's in my chest, close to my left clavicle and it really hurt even though they used a local to kill the pain. It's weird to know that there's this plug there, this plastic thing that they plug me in with. It's like this constant reminder that my life is hanging on—what?—hanging on technology, I guess.

The shunt doesn't hurt any more. It's sort of like when I got my nipple pierced. It hurt like a bitch when it first happened then it hurt a little bit while it was healing then it was just part of me.

That's sort of weird when you think about it.

I go to chemo five days a week, three weeks on, one week off. Some days I do radiation, too. The chemo is an IV drip and they put me in this room that has two beds and usually another kid and we just lie there for like six or seven hours feeling like crap and tired and not watching whatever is playing on the TV, then we go back to the House.

I sleep a lot.

It's OK there, where we're staying and I know it saves a huge amount of money, but sometimes I wish I could go somewhere that isn't about being sick.

I think that Brian knows this, at least somewhat, so he's been trying to get me out to see things in the city on days when I don't have to be in the hospital. We've seen a couple pf plays that I'd mentioned sounded good and he's taken me to a few museums.

I feel strange about all of that, though. I mean, in this fucking wheelchair and I have no Goddamned hair and I look like shit and I feel worse and he's trying to show me things hat a year ago I'd be thrilled to see and now I'm just trying to keep my fucking eyes open.

I hate that it's like the kid's dying, so lets get all this shit in under the wire. Get the kid to the museums and the shows and the parks and even a frigging ride in a horse drawn carriage through Central Park one day.

I want to just be able to go see stuff without it being like it's checked off some master list somewhere.

I hate that people stare at me.

I used to like that, when I was a cute, hot twink and the other half of 'Brian and…' Then I didn't feel like a freak. I hate people feeling fucking sorry for me.

I hate that Brian is caught up in this shit when he should be working or going to the clubs or with someone who isn't a fucking invalid.

I want him—happy. I know how lameass that is, but it's what I want. I want him with someone he can enjoy and go out to dinner with and then maybe see a movie then come home and make love.

I hate that I feel like crap all the time and that my hair has fallen out and I'm a fucking skeleton.

I just want to feel like I used to, I want to look like I used to. God, I want those things so much.

I hate what this is doing to my Mom.

I wish she could meet someone who isn't an asshole who'll be good to her and make her smile again like she used to when I was little. I wish I were easier for her to have as a son.

I hate having to use a Goddamned wheelchair. Advertise it a little more, why don't you?

Purple? He got a purple wheelchair? What, Emmett picked this out? At least it isn't painted with a frigging rainbow.

I hate not being in Pittsburgh with my friends and not being in school.

I miss just hanging out with them and doing normal things. I even miss going to the diner and bussing dishes and getting my ass pinched.

I hate that I'm too sick for me and Brian to fuck. Even when he tries to blow me, I can't get it up because of all the fucking drugs and I don't have the energy to do anything for him. I can't even bottom because—because I can't even take a crap without crying because it hurts so much.

And it's not just the sex I miss. I miss—God, I'm such a lesbian—I miss the closeness. Brian and I pushed the beds together and sleep together, but all we do, pretty much, is sleep. I wish we could—be like we were.

I hate that when he goes out for a few hours to see some client Vance wants him to stroke, he has this look of relief on his face. I hate that he needs a break from me—and I know he does. I wish that I could convince him to go somewhere for a week or two so he doesn't have to deal with all my shit for a while and I know that he won't and I know that he'll start to resent it all but that he'll never leave.

I know he's doing this partly because he wants to and partly out of some sort of obligation from—what? The bashing? Helping me come out? Being healthy himself? I wish he'd step back for his own good, at least once in a while. He turned down a trip Vance wanted him to go on to Santa Fe and when I found out I was really pissed. I wish that he'd do something for himself.

I hate being so Goddamned sick.

No shit.

They told us yesterday that the tests came back and all the crap they're doing isn't doing dick and that I'm now stage three. They want to up the treatments, up the chemo and the radiation but the doctors told Brian that they're afraid that if they do it could kill me.

The alternative is to let me die, I guess and I don't want to die.

I'm so fucking sick and I'm so fucking scared and I want to live.

I just don't want to die.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Day to Day 

So they upped the chemo dosage and they doubled the radiation treatments. The Tech told me again that it was a good thing that Justin had banked the sperm when he did because they sure as shit were frying whatever he had left.

Well, and didn't that make me feel better? Thanks, asshole.

The original tumor, the one in his arm was just about gone now, and that was good, but the lymph nodes were infected as far away as his groin, so that was bad.

The added treatments, the new regime was wiping the shit out of him and it was like I could hardly believe that someone that sick could still be functioning as much as he was. He would drag himself out of bed at six thirty, shower, usually with me helping because he was too weak to leave in there by himself, we'd get a quick breakfast (which he would throw up shortly after he ate it) then I'd wheel him the few blocks down First Avenue to Sloan Kettering.

We'd take the elevator up to the third floor, they'd plug him in by seven thirty and he'd lay there until about three in the afternoon when I'd help him back into the chair and wheel him home, help him throw up, help him get cleaned up and then he'd usually take a three or four hour nap while I did e-mail or called clients or touched base with Cynthia or something.

Next, I'd try to get some food into him—usually fail, then, if he was feeling relatively OK, he'd look through some e-mails or maybe make it downstairs to watch part of a video. Then he'd go to bed.

In the morning we'd start over again.

A couple of times a week I'd have a meeting with one of Vanguard clients or one of the potential clients. If that happened I'd make sure that Justin was settled, haul ass to Madison Avenue or someplace, do my damndest to be a professional and impress the shit out of whoever I was trying to impress that day and then get my butt back to the hospital.

Jesus, that was the role I was in—I was Dad— we were staying at Ronald McDonald House, for Christ's sake—they were nice and they were helpful, but I had a gut feeling that they'd not take kindly to one of their patient's gay lover making any kind of Pride statement. On those days when I had to be an ad man there would usually be one of the other parents doing the hand holding thing and they would generally offer to keep an eye on Justin for me. They'd get him a drink of water or help him to the bathroom or whatever. One time Nancy, she's one of the mothers, called the nurses when his IV started leaking that shit on the bed.

You need someone to be there.

You want to hear something that even I can't believe I'm saying?

That whole six months that we were there I only tricked about a dozen times, maybe even less. You could almost count them on one hand. Honest to shit, that's the truth.

It wasn't that I wasn't horny or anything like that, it was just that for the first time in my life—well since I finished puberty, anyway—there was something more important that getting laid. Shit, like I ever thought that I'd say that.

So they upped the treatments and everything that had almost started to get slightly better with his symptoms came back with a vengeance. The barfing, the exhaustion, the mouth sores—God, it was fucking awful.

He began getting so weak that the doctors realized that he was suffering from malnutrition on top of everything else so they put him on a regimen of hyper alimentation and lipids, which are basically a way to get nutrition to a patient who can't eat. It worked—he started to get stronger and that was great to see, but the long-term effects on his liver could be a problem at some point down the line.

Of course, since 'down the line' was starting to look like about three months there for a while, it seemed like a reasonable tradeoff.

It was one of those Goddamned bridges that we'd cross when we got to it—if we got to it.

For a couple of weeks things just sort of stabilized, status quo, but then, slowly the readings, the counts, the blood work started looking up.

He was getting better. There was no question and it was definite and not wishful thinking. Fuck me—the day that Ortiz came in and said that we might want to go out to dinner because Justin's mouth was healed enough for him to eat solid food I though I'd break into a Goddamned Irish jig right there in the radiation room.

The tumors were going down, the one in his arm almost nonexistent and the reading in the lymph nodes that he had left showed him almost clear. They said to give it another month of treatment and if the trend continued then—shit—he could seriously think about going home.

He didn't say anything when the doctor told him that. He just sat there, almost stunned but the nurses who had all fallen in love wit him, even though they tried hard to maintain that professional distance, just started smiling and I caught a couple of them wiping tears away. That's the kind of lesbian moment that I normally don't have much patience for but this time I'd decided to make an exception.

Justin? He just sat there in his Goddamned purple wheelchair with no hair and looking like a Goddamned stick figure and he smiled that smile that no one had seen in fuck knows how long and it was like the sun came out and he stood up and put his arms around me and just held on and I could feel his allergies starting and so I just held onto him until he was ready to move on.

We called Jenn when we got back to the room and she was crying and laughing just like everyone else had been back at Sloan a little while ago. She got Molly on the phone and she was thanking me and telling me that if it hadn't been for me her brother would have been dead by now and I told her the truth—that was full of shit and he had done it himself, I'd just pushed the wheelchair for him.

I was going to book a reservation at this Japanese place we'd found that he liked, but he asked me not to—something about not wanting to jinx things.

Hey, whatever.

It didn't matter, as long as he was happy and getting better then who gave a fuck where we ate dinner. I said something about how we could just get Japanese when we got back to Pittsburgh in a month or so and he thought that would be just fine.

That next month? Damn—compared to the last five it was a walk in the frigging park.

He was still on the same schedule while we were there; he still had the chemo five days a week and the radiation a few days, too. He was still on enough meds to choke a horse and he still felt like shit after each treatment, but each time we got readings and results they looked better than the last time and now they were actually starting to use words like 'remission' and 'recovery' and 'follow-up therapy'.

I never thought crap like that would sound good, but I guess my perspective changed after what we'd been living with.

Three weeks later we were at the tail end. We were starting to pack up at the RMDH, we were winding down with the treatments and we were starting to say goodbye to everyone who had helped and they were legion.

There was one last round of shit to go through and towards the end Ortiz came over to where I was waiting for Justin to come out of the radiation room.

He was a good guy, fairly young and the kind of man you'd feel OK trusting your life to. He said he had a few things he had to go over with me.

Justin was clean, as far as they could determine from the latest tests. They had run every test they had and there were no malignancies anywhere. His arm was fine, his nodes were clean. His blood counts were still low, but that was normal and they should start coming up now that he wasn't getting a daily dose of poison. The mouth sores and the sores on his feet were healing well. His hair should start growing back as soon as the chemo and shit ended and that was this afternoon. He should start gaining back some of the weight he'd lost over the next few months.

Justin needed to stay in touch. The cancer he had was known to recur. It was a fucking aggressive kind so, though what was happening right now was good, we couldn't believe we'd won yet.

That made me think of what I'd told Justin about Senator Baxter—who had called a few times, by the way, to talk with him and try to encourage him—that thing about how he shouldn't think he'd won because that was when he'd lose.

He was to have follow up MRI's and CAT's every couple of months. He was to keep taking the meds. If he noticed any changes in his body—anything—he was to see his doctor or come back to New York. He wasn't to return to school or work for at least six months. He'd need at least that much recovery time. He had to take it easy, rest, eat and build up his strength. He should try to avoid stress or getting upset.

Yes, yes, anything. We'd do anything. I promised that I'd make sure that he stuck to what he was supposed to do. I swore that he would.

I'd fucking make sure of that and if I slipped up, Jennifer would be the back up plan. He'd make it to every appointment. That wasn't even up for discussion.

Three days later we were driving the rental down Route 80 enroute to the Pennsylvania Turnpike with Justin next to me and our shit filling the back seat.

He was skinny and bald and as happy as a pig in shit. The last chemo and radiation were days ago and the side effects were wearing off. He was happy and laughing and it was so fucking good to be there with him. I still remember most of the conversation.

"Brian? I don't know if I said it or not, but I couldn't have done this if you weren't there."

"Yeah, you could have."

"Whatever. Thank you, OK? Honest to shit, you saved my life."

"The doctors saved your life. Don't be a drama queen"

We rode for a while without saying anything.

"You're not going to admit that I owe you, are you?"

"Christ, Justin—you don't owe me shit. You know me—if I didn't want to be there, I wouldn't have been."

" Mom said that you wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. So, thank you."

"Yeah. Whatever."

That was all we said about it. We never brought it up again and neither of us forgot it.

We drove the 350 miles in about seven hours, about what it usually takes and I knew that Jennifer would be waiting for us to pull in. To make things easier and to spare some feelings, we had agreed that Justin would stay with his mother during the week and probably come to the loft for the weekends. She wanted to see him, I had a shitload of work to catch up on—it was reasonable and we could always change the arrangement if we wanted to.

So we get to the condo and she comes running out with Molly close behind. Justin was helped up the stairs and settled into the living room which was filled with balloons, while I went out with Molly to get his bags.

That's when the strangest fucking thing happened, you know—one of the signs of the apocalypse.

I was carrying this suitcase up to Justin's room and fucking Craig comes out of the bathroom where I can hear the toilet flushing. He sees me, I see him and I'm about to just walk past to drop the bag when he put his hand on my arm, but gently, and said,

"Kinney? I want to thank you for what you did for my son."

That was all he said before he walked back downstairs.

And the pisser? I think he actually meant it.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Home 

I'd fucking beaten it.

I had.

I was in remission, my hair was growing back and I was starting to gain back some of the weight and the tumor on my arm had disappeared and I wasn't throwing up anymore and—Jesus—it felt so fucking good.

OK, my clothes were still hanging on like heroin chic, but at least I was walking under my own power and the first morning that I walked into the diner you'd have thought that I was returning royalty or something.

Deb did the expected, screamed and threw her arms around me like I was a long lost love or Ed McMahon and even Michael was pretending to be happy to see me. OK, I knew he was just glad that it all meant that Brian was back, but at that point I was willing to take what I could get.

The others, everyone who was in the place all made their way over to me at some point while I was there to tell me they were glad that I was back—it made me feel good, you know?

Emmett kept his arm around me and went on about how the baldy-locks look would become all the rage once everyone got a good look at my chrome dome and he wouldn't let me get a wig or anything no matter how I pleaded, so don't bother trying, but he did know a place to get some really fabulous hats and he was dying to take me. Ted was his usual quiet, cynical self, but did say that if I needed any help figuring out the insurance or the bills, just let him know.

They're good guys.

Deb was trying to insist that I eat everything on the frigging menu, so I told her that I was doing better, but my appetite still wasn't what it had been—like anyone could maintain that standard forever, for God's sake—so she grudgingly went easy on me with eggs over easy, dry toast and some weak tea. I did manage to eat all of it, though, which I thought was pretty good.

I was about halfway though the food when Deb seemed to notice that I'd come in alone and asked, in her subtle way, "Where the fuck is Brian?"

So I explained it to her.

My Mom had dropped me off. I was staying at the condo. Brian needed a break, even though he never said that and wouldn't have admitted it, and he had a shit load of work that he had to catch up on. We'd agreed that, as long as I felt well enough, I'd probably stay with him on the weekends. Yes, sure, of course. I'd rather have stayed with Brian at the loft full time, but I couldn't ask him that. I just fucking couldn't after everything he'd already done for me the last few months. I mean, fuck me, he'd practically tanked his job, moved to New York City and all to play nursemaid to me while I threw up and looked like skank and couldn't even begin to give back a tenth of what he was giving to me.

So I was staying with Mom and she was happy about that and I was pretty much OK with it, too—as long as she stayed off my case and backed off when she started getting nuts.

I knew that she had to do the Mom thing. It was important to her; I knew that my being sick, especially after the bashing had just about killed her and she needed to know that I was really getting better.

Hell, I was even happy to be living with Molly again—shit, OK the fact was that I was just Goddamned happy to be alive and living anywhere.

I don't mind admitting that there were more than a couple of days when I didn't think I'd make it—and there were days when I wasn't sure that I even wanted to, but as soon as Brian saw that I was getting to that point, he'd do something to get me going again. He'd take me to a museum or he'd kiss me or he'd tell me about all the great places we'd go to when I got better and he was so Goddamned sure about it—like it was just an assumption, that there was no question about it at all, that dying wasn't an option, that I would get caught up in it and make it through another day.

So Deb stood there, hands on her hips and asked if "The asshole fucked up again", and I told her the truth, that he'd been a fucking saint and if it hadn't been for him I wouldn't have made it.

I didn't bother to go into all the details like about how he had cleaned up my puke and piss and shit and how he had washed me and fed me and made sure that I got out of the McDonald House to see some of New York. I didn't bother telling her that he set the alarm to wake up to check my vitals just about every night and made sure I had the meds and got to treatment on time, that I had clean clothes to wear. I couldn't tell her about the nights we had lain together, me too sick and hurting too much to do fucking anything and he had held me and let me cry myself out against his shoulder or the nights when he would read me to sleep like he would occasionally do for Gus.

I didn't tell her any of that because she probably knew it anyway.

She'd know Brian for seventeen years and if she really thought that he was a hopeless jackass, she would have dumped him sixteen years ago.

She knew what he'd done without my telling her and I knew she knew when he walked in twenty minutes later and saw her go over to him. It was his first stop in at the diner since we'd gotten back and she put her hand on his arm, reached up to kiss his cheek and I heard her whisper "I'm proud of you, kiddo."

He gave her that embarrassed half smile he has when he's busted doing something nice and just said, "Thanks, Mom." Before kissing her cheek in return and joining me for his breakfast.

He looked across the table at me, asked me how I was doing this morning and I guess he liked what he saw because he gave me one of his real smiles.

He ate his whole-wheat toast and black coffee with a ton of sugar, kissed me goodbye and asked if I would be up to company later, after he got off work. I guess that I just gave that stupid dumbass smile of mine as an answer because he looked happy enough with that, said "Later" and left to get to Vanguard.

Mom had said that she'd pick me up after some errand she was running and I saw her walk in, go over to talk with Debbie for a few minutes then come ask me if I was ready to go.

Well, to tell the truth, I was fucking exhausted. I wasn't just ready to go home, I was ready to be there right this minute and sleep for a week, thanks. I didn't say that, needless to say, just smiled, said "Sure" and we were gone.

When we got back to the condo I did just about what I wanted to, which was to take a four hour nap. When I woke up around one in the afternoon, I was on my way down to the kitchen to get something to drink on the way was stopped by Dad who was sitting reading in the living room. He asked me what it was I wanted and offered to get me the juice.

When he handed me the glass he sat down on the couch with me and—Jesus—he seemed to want to actually have a nice talk.

And all it took was a little cancer to break the logjam.

He asked how I was feeling, told me how worried he'd been—even though he'd never bothered to pick up the Goddamned phone or drop in, of course and told me how happy he was that I seemed to be doing better.

Yeah, right. Whatever. OK, fine. I guess he was trying, more or less, so I decided that—what the fuck—"I couldn't have made it if Brian hadn't been there—but you knew that, right?"

He looked at me like he wished that I was still maybe ten years old and I thought that he could do anything he fucking wanted because he was my father and he was fucking superman and then he surprised the shit out if me.

"I know. Your mother told me about it, she told me about what he did—that he moved to New York to take care of you and all of that." He actually took a breath like he needed to gather his strength for what was coming. "I thanked him the night you got home."

Fuck me.

"Look, Justin—this whole thing with you getting sick, it's put some things in perspective for me. I know that sounds like bullshit—." Obviously he'd caught the look on my face. "But it has."

"So because I almost died from cancer and the treatment, you're ready to let bygones be bygones?"

That was when I noticed that he looked old. He was only like a dozen years older than Brian, but he looked all gray and dry and used up, sort of how I always pictured that Willy Loman would look if he didn't look like Dustin Hoffman.

Well. Maybe.

"OK, I take it you're saying that you'd like to be friends again, that you want to be my father even if I'm a fag?"

"Look, Justin…the fact is that I am your father and I love you. I want to help and I want us to be able to talk like we used to before—all the shit happened." He actually looked out the window, taking pause—and they call ME a drama queen. "Please, Justin."

Christ, I never thought that I'd see my father beg. Jesus.

"What about Brian? Can you accept that he's important in my life and that I'm in love with him?"

He nodded...and you know what? I believed him. Who the Hell ever thought that would happen?

"Would you have dinner with me? And Brian, too."

This was just my day for surprises, wasn't it? To tell the true, I was pretty frigging tired and all I really wanted was another nap, but I knew that this was a big step for him so, "I'll call him and see if he can make it, OK?" Fuck it, I could sleep all afternoon. The phone was on the table, I punched in the number, told Cynthia that I felt better, thanks and could I speak to him for a minute? It wouldn't take long. I was put through and explained the situation. Brian—after a couple of comments about how he was certain that it was indeed the apocalypse, said that he'd look forward to it—sort of, and that he'd be there. In fact, he said that he'd pick me up, if I wanted.

I'm sure that he would have rather eaten glass, but I think he knew that I wanted to give it a shot.

So at seven Brian and I were walking into the burger place that my father had suggested. Brian and I both ordered salads and Dad got this big mother thing that had used about half a cow, with cheese and bacon and half the produce aisle thrown on top.

There was some reserve on both of their parts—no shit, but at least they were being polite. Dad was surprised that I didn't want what he was having and I explained to him that I was still sort of off my feed and that I was happier with something lighter. Brian almost never eats a lot, not that Dad would have a reason to know that.

Then he—Dad, I mean—sort of cleared his throat and started talking about how he had misjudged Brian and that he had been hasty in his first assessment. He said that he'd been doing a lot of research and he had found out a lot of things about homosexuality, that's what he called it—the whole big word—and he now knew more than he used to and he understood that I was probably born the way I was and so was Brian.

He did qualify it all by saying that he still thought that Brian was years too old for me but that he wouldn't do anything to stand in our way or anything.

Then, right in front of me, he thanked Brian for all the help he'd given after the bashing and with the cancer and all the rest.

OK, I got a little pissy and asked if he thanked Brian for taking me in after he—Dad—had thrown me out of the house? He looked sort of embarrassed and said that he did, that he was grateful that I had found someone who would stand by me the way Brian had.

Well, you could have blown me over with a fucking feather.

I glanced over at Brian, not sure what I'd see there, and he had this look on his face. It was the look he gets when he knows something is going down that isn't obvious and you know that his mind is going about a hundred miles an hour figuring out just what the Hell it is.

I asked him about it once, years ago about something and he just said "Don't trust anyone and get it in writing."

He looked like he was trying to figure out what Dad's angle was. "So, you're alright with me and Justin being together? The last time we really spoke, you seemed somewhat against it."

Well, Brian always did have a way with words.

"I didn't say that I'm completely alright with it, but I understand better now and I think I can accept it."

Without meaning to, I started yawning. Shit. I didn't mean to give Brian a reason to cut out.

"That's good of you, Craig, but I think Justin needs to get back now, if you'll excuse us." He stood up, holding the chair for me.

"Justin, I'll call you tomorrow and if you need me, please—just let me know."

I thanked him and he knew I meant for more than just a meal and we left.

In the car on the way back to the condo Brian asked me how I was feeling and I admitted to him that I was pretty fucking tired, then I asked him what he thought about Dad's peace offering.

He drove for about half a block then answered. "I think that he's full of shit, Justin. I believe that he misses you, sure he does, but he's afraid that your mother will take him to court to attach his wages for your medical expenses."

That pissed me off. Dad had been trying, Goddamnit. "Christ, you don't know that and that's bullshit. He's still my father and he's worried about me. That's what's going on. You're just being a cynical asshole." But even as I was ranting at Brian, I knew that he was probably right. I knew that Mom was worried about the costs that weren't covered and they were up to close to two hundred thousand dollars. Brian had offered to help and Mel had offered to talk to the hospital and the doctors to work out payment plans and all of that, but there were still enormous bills coming in—and the fucker was that the insurance had actually paid over three hundred thousand already. I didn't understand it all, but I knew they were balking at some of the treatments and Sloan wanted payment.

Shit.

Like she didn't have enough to deal with.

Fuck.

Brian was right.

Dad missed me and might even be willing—sort of—to accept me and Brian, but he had his reasons.

Like always.

Some things just never fucking change.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

**Being Normal **

So, slowly, day-by-day, my life seemed to become more of my own.

My hair began to grow back, first just peach fuzz then half an inch and then an entire inch all over.

I began to gain back a little of the weight I'd lost, too. I still got tired easily and it wasn't like I wasn't seeing doctors every time I turned around, but all in all, it was a far sight better than it had been a few months ago.

I—we—had gotten into the habit of my staying at the condo most of the week and then around either Thursday or Friday I'd pack a small bag and Mom would take me over to the loft for the weekend or Brian would pick me up after work. We wouldn't usually just stay around the loft, either cooking or having take out and maybe a DVD.

Shit, listen to me. I sound like a domestic goddess, but it was really OK. Once in a while we would go to Woody's or maybe Babylon for a while and then we'd be welcomed back like returning heroes, but usually we just stayed close to home.

Once in a while some of the family would come over to either Brian's or my Mom's, sometimes Molly—who's still completely in love with Brian—would come over for a day or an afternoon just to bask in his aura. Occasionally we would go out and do something like a movie or a play or something, but mostly we just stayed together.

Ted and Melanie, between them, managed to get most of the insurance bills under control, which was an incredible help. They couldn't get them all covered, but the ones that weren't they had worked out payment plans that wouldn't kill and, so help me God, I'm going to help getting those fuckers paid off. As soon as I'm well enough I'm going to get a job and then I'll be able to start kicking in some money.

You know, that's how I think I knew that I was getting better; I started getting bored.

I could draw and that was great, but I couldn't drive too much because I'd get tired—OK and I didn't have a car and had to borrow Mom's, but I really did still get tired and everyone else was usually busy.

Mom and Brian both worked, like duh. Molly was in school and she was like thirteen years old anyway. Dad was pretty much put of the picture. Mel and Linds worked, Deb, Ted and Emmett, even Vic, they all had jobs. Michael had the comic book store and I could talk with him about Rage and we did some work on a new issue, but we've never been what you'd call best buds. Daphne had school.

I was just plain bored. I had nothing really to do all day.

I called the local oncologist, Dr. Alban, and asked if I could get a job. He said that the most I could consider was something that was only ten hours a week. Or less.

Right, like anyone would hire me for that.

I did a lot of reading.

I watched movies.

I sketched.

I was about to take up fucking tatting.

I cooked dinner on the days I was feeling good.

I started a mural in Molly's bedroom that she had been asking me about for years.

I had even taken to weeding the damn garden until I was told that I still had to be careful about the sun and I really hate wearing sunscreen

Right, yes, I know it's important. I do know, OK? But it feels like you have bacon grease slathered on you and I just so frigging hate it.

That was another thing I'd come to really hate. The reactions that I get from everyone I meet. I used to be Justin. Then I became Justin the queer guy. Then I was Brian and Justin which evolved into Justin and Ethan which evolved back to Brian and Justin.

Now I'm that kid who had cancer.

I hate the looks I get when I walk down the street and people could see that I had no hair and that it wasn't just a fashion statement.

I hate that when Brian and I go to one of the bars or dance clubs everyone makes a point of coming over to ask how I'm doing, how I'm feeling.

I hate that Brian still treats me like I'm made out of glass and I'm about to shatter—yeah. Mom and Debbie do that, too. I just fucking hate it.

I hate that I'm a Goddamned invalid.

Hey, have you ever really looked at that word—invalid? Take a look now and take it apart like I did.

Invalid in-vaild.

That's what I am now. I'm not valid as anything other than some kid who was really sick and got better but may head south anytime now so you'd better watch it.

I just so fucking hate it. It's like I'm no longer 'Justin', I'm just 'cancerboy'—does that make any sense? And don't even get me stated on the ones who look at me, realize what's happened and practically cross the street because it might be catching.

I've developed the biggest case of cooties you've ever seen.

One thing almost brought a smile to my face, though.

I was at the Giant Eagle with Brian a few weeks ago. I was feeling pretty good, even though I was looking like shit, and we had stopped in so that we could get some supplies for me to make dinner. I was looking at the chicken when I heard a voice…THE voice.

"Hey Taylor, I heard you've got AIDS. About fucking time, asshole."

So I turned around, grabbed Hobbs by the back of the neck and planted this big wet kiss right on his mouth, tongue and all.

He looked like he was about to shit, I mean he was practically puking right there. He was so frigging scared and looked like he was about to hit me, really take me out when Brian showed up beside me and sort of got in between us, just giving Hobbs one of his really good glares. Then all he said…damn it was so perfect, "You might want to get tested, Chris." Then he put his arm around me and we left him standing there.

Jesus, I love Brian.

So anyway, I called PIFA a couple of weeks ago and explained what was going on. They knew about the cancer, of course, because they'd granted me the original medical leave when I'd had to go to New York. I asked them if it would be possible to come back on a part time basis because I couldn't handle a full course load yet.

The Admissions Office put me through to the Dean of Students, this really decent guy, and he listened to me and told me that he used to be in charge of whatever department it was that took care of disabled students and so he knew the regs inside and out. He told me that cancer is covered under the Disabilities Act and that not only did they legally have to work to accommodate me, he wanted to and would do whatever he could to make it happen. He meant it, too, which was pretty damn nice of him.

He took my number, asked a few questions and said that he'd call the Dean of Freshman—yes, I was still a freshman—and tell her what was going on and they'd get together about it and give me a call in a couple of days.

So, sure as shit, about three days later I get this call from the Dean of Freshman telling me that they had spoken to some of the professors and had found one who was sympathetic to my situation. It turned out that not only was the Dean a cancer survivor, but this professor's wife was, too.

I was signed up for life drawing three days a week with the understanding that I might have to miss a class here and there and that I would have extra time to complete assignments because I still just got so damn tired.

So about a week later I was sitting in a studio with a piece of charcoal in my hand and drawing this nude in a class full of other students and no one asked me if I was OK or if I was tired or if I wanted anything. I was just another student and that was just fucking great.

Then on my way to the bus stop I saw Ethan and his new beau—I'd known about that for a while—having some big argument in front of the student union. Beauboy was yelling that Ethan could play on fucking street corners till his damn fingers froze, but if he thought that made him an artist then he was an jerk. It seemed to end with the beau walking off and leaving Ethan just standing there.

Christ—that had to be one of the best days of my life, and I mean that.

Oh, and the cheery on top? I had gone over to Craigtheasshole's office, which was how I now thought of him and asked him if he thought that, maybe, he could see his way clear to covering the cost of one class, that it would be a couple of thousand with supplies. He was sitting there behind that big desk with the door open and his secretary sitting about ten feet away listening to every word

I went on about how Mom was really supporting me now, along with Brian, and they had been so incredibly generous that I couldn't see asking them for anything. Besides, I couldn't work right now because of the doctor's orders and so—well, could be maybe pony up something here?

I had him by the short hairs and I knew it. I walked out with the check in my pocket.

Brian laughed when I told him, which I did about half an hour later up in Vanguard's executive offices. I'd gone over after I left my father's because it was almost lunchtime and I wanted to tell someone or I thought I'd explode.

He was in a meeting with some company that made office furniture—I could picture Brian's face as he thought about the different things he could do with a nice sturdy desk—and so I just hung out in his office. Cynthia said it would be alright and she was busy, so I didn't want to bother her.

I was just sort of sitting there, waiting. I started looking through some magazines on the coffee table but they were boring so I moved over to Brian's desk. It was spotless, of course, even in the middle of a workday, so when I decided to draw I had to open one of the drawers to find a pencil and a pad. That was where I found the picture in a leather frame. It wasn't really hidden; it was just sort of put away like it was private.

It was a shot of the two of us and looked like it had been taken on the dance floor at the prom. We're both wearing tuxes but Brian's jacket is gone and he has this white scarf around his neck. In the picture we're both lit by colored lights and we seem to be in a white spotlight, there're Mylar balloons around us reflecting the lights. We have our arms around each other and we're kissing and I know that this is the dance he and Daphne tried to get me to remember. In my head I can hear the music that was playing and I can see the faces of the other kids and the chaperones and I remember that Daphne was smiling.

I remember it. I finally remember and I can remember how it was that night, how I knew that it would never get any better than that moment when we were twirling around and he had his arms around me and I knew with complete certainty that, no matter what he said—or didn't say, he loved me as much as I loved him.

I remembered.

I was sitting there with this stupid smile on my face when I heard the door open and Brian was standing in front of me. He looked a question and I just said, "That was a good night." And that was all I had to say for him to understand that it had all come back. He returned the smile and just nodded in agreement.

We went to lunch and I told him about the class, that my father had agreed to foot the bill and how I finally really felt like I was coming back, that I could get better. I felt stronger and, for the first time in a long time, I really thought that I had this thing pretty much beat.

It was a Friday and he did something I'd never seen him do before in all the time I've known him. He pulled out his cel and told Cynthia that he wouldn't be in for the rest of the day, that he'd see her on Monday, and then he looked at me and asked what I'd like to do to celebrate. What was my pleasure?

"Go back to the loft and make love."

"You want to fuck? You feel alright enough for that?"

Asshole. I said that I want to make love and I'm fine for that."

So he gave me that half smile, half smirk and ended the day on a spectacular high note.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**House of Cards**

Justin had been back from New York and Sloan Kettering for about five months and things were looking pretty good if I say so myself.

He was going to a couple of classes at PIFA, he was staying with me on more than just weekends, his medical bills were under control and things were looking up.

Gardner was talking about opening that New York office he'd been salivating about since he was like about twenty and even he agreed that it was because of the contacts I'd made while I was with Justin during his treatment that had put us over the top. The plan seemed to be that we would start scouting locations for office space, make sure that we had the contracts signed that would keep the second office solvent for at least a year and then I'd probably make the move to set the thing up and run the day-to-day operation. Cynthia would come with me along with a couple of the others who could tell the difference between their butts and a hole in the ground.

I'd get the bump up from junior partner to full partner and a hefty raise to compensate for the move and the added expense of living in New York.

Justin knew about it and the idea was that, as soon as he got the clearance from his doctors, he would start applying to schools in New York, we'd find some apartment that would have enough room for us to share and things would be perfect. You know, walk off into the sunset sort of stuff.

We were having dinner over at Jennifer's one night when Justin sort of blurted out the news and it was pretty obvious that Jenn wasn't all that happy about the idea of her little boy going off to the big city when he was still not 100.

Oh, Hell, he was so Goddamned much better, though. You couldn't believe how much better he was.

His hair was back and it seemed even thicker than it had been before. He'd regained a lot of the weight he'd lost. His sense of humor was in place and he was interested in things again.

He was drawing and painting as well as he ever had and there was a new depth to his work and a maturity to it that wasn't just my imagination.

You know how they talk about the light at the end of the Goddamned tunnel? Well, it way practically blinding.

We even had our sex life back—Ok, not quite up to the previous standards, but that was alright. We had something better than just hot sex—not that there's anything wrong with hot sex, mind you. We had something even better than that.

We'd gotten to the point where we'd developed a language for lovemaking and it was one that I didn't really know existed. Oh, don't get me wrong. I knew plenty about screwing and fucking and I could probably teach master's classes in giving head and all the rest of it, but this went beyond simple mechanics. We understood one another's bodies and wants and desires and needs on some nonverbal level and it was fucking amazing. It was the best sex I'd ever had because it went beyond sex.

Jesus, listen to me.

I sound like a fucking lesbian.

But you know? It's true.

I'd known it since before he'd left me for Ethan, but I couldn't get enough of just lying in bed naked, holding him and knowing that he was with me. And he still gives the best blowjobs on the planet.

So, things were rolling along just fine. I had to go to New York almost every week for a couple for days to deal with the new office and find a place for us to live in. I got the agency a decent space just off Madison Avenue. It wasn't huge, but it was big enough for the basics and close enough to the high rent district to impress anyone who thought that shit mattered. Then I found a sublet for the two of us down in the Village. It was the top two floors of a four-story brownstone with a private entrance. It had a kitchen, a bath and a living room with a spare room that I would use as my office on the first of our floors. Then up on the top floor was a big bedroom with an amazing bath and what had been a nursery that could be fitted out as a studio for Justin. It even had a skylight.

I also made sure that it had an elevator so that Justin wouldn't have a problem with the stairs. It was tiny, like the one in the film "The Producers", but it went up and down, so it was fine. I signed the lease for a year with an option.

Everything was in place and it was all set to happen in about a month. Justin had been to Manhattan with me a couple of times and he's checked out the different art schools that were available. He'd finally decided that Parsons and Pratt were the two that had the most of what he was looking for, so he applied to go as a transfer student with special notes from the various Deans who he'd been working with since he'd gotten sick.

Both places accepted him as a part time student, based on his portfolio and it was understood that everything was contingent upon his health, but he hoped to move up to full time with in a semester or two. He opted to go to Pratt.

So the loft was closed up, the stuff in it would stay right where it was for when I came back, and we found things for the sublet. Clothes and various necessities had been shipped in cartons and the business end of things was under control.

The last thing we had to do, which Justin had put off because he'd been feeling so damn good and was so fucking busy, was a final check up before he transferred back to the care of his oncologist in New York.

He'd made the appointment for a Wednesday afternoon and I'd offered to drive him, but Jennifer had told him that he could take her car and he was always looking for an excuse to drive.

I was going to meet him at the loft after I finished up at work, probably about seven.

So around seven –thirty I walked, expecting him to be ready to go out for dinner and couldn't find him. The loft isn't that big when you come down to it, just one big room, so it wasn't hard to double check.

The lights were on, though—all of them, and that wasn't like him. He'd had that 'turn off the lights if you're not using them' thing drilled into him, so I knew that he was probably around somewhere.

I checked the roof; he'd go up there sometimes to get some air or sketch, but nothing.

I called his cel but it was off.

I took another tour of the loft and it looked like the shower had been used but he wasn't there.

I checked the kitchen to see—I don't know, I guess to see if he'd packed a lunch or something, but it didn't look like anything had been moved or anything.

I called Daphne to see if he'd stopped by there, but she hadn't seen him in about a week.

I called the diner. Deb told me that if she didn't get to see us before we left, she'd fry out nuts for breakfast and no, she hadn't seen him in a couple of days.

He wasn't at the munchers. He wasn't at the comic book shop; he wasn't over at Deb's with Vic. I tried his studio at PIFA—I'd insisted that he have a phone installed there so I could get him if he forgot to recharge his cel and he didn't notice that it was two in the morning. I got his answering machine.

It was now after eight-thirty and I was about to try the cops and the hospitals when the door slid open and he walked in, looking like shit on a shingle, as dear old Jack would have said.

Before I could say anything he walked over to me, put his arms around me, holding on for dear life and started crying.

I held him back, maneuvered him over to the couch and just let him cry himself out.

It took over an hour.

Every time I though that he was slowing down a new wave would start and he'd either start that hiccupping crying that you know is almost out of control or he'd slip into out and out sobbing. He'd slow down to a sort of steady crying then start up again.

I just held onto him, rubbing his back and saying these meaningless bullshit platitudes about how it would be alright, don't worry, it's not as bad as you think it is and crap like that. Even I knew they were a load while I was saying them. He didn't even bother responding. He just cried.

He was scaring the shit out of me. Honest to God he was. I'd seen him go through all kinds of Hell without even raising a complaint—he'd been bashed, he'd been thrown out of his parent's house, he'd had Goddamned cancer, we'd broken up—OK that was a big one for me, anyway—and all he'd ever done were a few drama queen moments that were really hardly more than a two or three on the drama queen scale.

Finally, finally he seemed to have almost cried himself out and was just laying there against me, quiet, with tears still tracking down his face

I waited for him to tell me what I thought I already knew.

He'd had a follow up MRI that afternoon and you usually get the results, at least the initial ones, pretty much right then.

The doctors had found something and it was probably bad.

His voice was so quiet, low and muffled against my chest, that I had to strain to hear what he was saying and then after he said it I had to strain some more to make sense out of it.

"…They found four new tumors. Two are in my lungs and the other two are in my breasts."

Jesus.

Shit.

Fuck me.

"They haven't been biopsied. You don't know that they've metastasized. It could be nothing."

He started crying again. "I know, Brian. It's my body. I know."

I held him some more and after another hour or so I could feel him drifting off, exhausted by the day and the trauma and the upset. I settled him on the couch, covered him with a blanket, turned out a bunch of lights and called the doctor. I got his service, of course. It was after nine by now. I didn't give a shit if he was home after a long day.

To the guy's credit, he returned the call within about ten minutes.

I liked this man. He was, as far as I could tell, a good doctor and he actually seemed to care about his patients. He hadn't developed that thick skin that most of them have to as a defense against the horrors they see on a daily basis.

The biopsy was set for the day after tomorrow and he really couldn't know what treatment that he would recommend until he had those results.

Yes, we should go ahead with the move to New York. Sloan Kettering was there and, should it be necessary, it would be better for him to continue treatment with doctors who were familiar with Justin's case. They had state of the art facilities and he'd be in the best of hands. Besides, Justin was looking forward to the move and it would be a blow to his morale to have that taken away at the last minute.

He went on to say that I should, absolutely go ahead with the plans that I'd been making—the new branch of the agency, the townhouse, all of it. A side from the fact that I still had a life to live (I almost laughed out loud at that, but he was trying to be kind and I knew that, so I contained myself). It would be bad for Justin to think that I'd put my career on hold because of him. Justin had spoken with pride about how well I was doing, how good I was at my job and how in demand I was. To let him think that he'd somehow damaged that could be devastating to his sense of self worth.

I thanked him, apologized for disturbing him at home and ended the call after promising to have Justin at the hospital for the biopsy.

I walked over to the where he was still sleeping on the couch. His hair had grown back, he had some color to his face and he looked healthy, Damnit.

He did. He looked like he was going to be alright.

Oh, Christ.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Two steps back**

I made sure that he was at the hospital two days later for the biopsies and we were told that as soon as they knew something the doctor would call us.

On Saturday he did.

Four tumors were tested, all of them were malignant.

I'd answered the phone, Justin was on the couch and he couldn't hear, but he saw the look on my face, read my body language. He knew.

Two days before he had cried, this time he just looked like it was simply confirming what he had known all along and for all I know, it was.

The doctor went on at some length about how we would have to come in on Monday to go over what the options were. He said that the tumors were fast growing since the MRI a month ago hadn't found anything and so the treatment would have to start almost immediately and be aggressive. He also told me that he knew that this was a blow to Justin—you think?—and that there were some things that perhaps he should tell either me or his mother privately to minimize the emotional trauma. He understood, he insisted, that Justin was an intelligent young man and no longer a minor, but with something like this, perhaps we could work together to decide what he needed to know at this point.

Christ—doesn't that just make it sound like a walk in the park?

The rest of the weekend was about as bad as I thought it would be.

Before, the first time around it had been a night mare, but there was this basic feeling that if we did everything right, if he had the chemo and the radiation and lived through the mouth sores and the foot sores and the weight loss and the hair loss and the pain and the exhaustion and the knowing that he fucking had cancer, then—if we made it through all of that and he was declared clear then—shit, he should be OK.

This wasn't supposed to happen and he was supposed to be better now and getting ready for the move to New York. He should have been excited about setting up the studio the way he wanted it and about starting his classes. He should have been jumping up and down about being in cabbing distance to those astounding museums and he should be looking forward to another fifty or sixty years of every Goddamned thing he wanted to look forward to.

Instead he was this walking corpse who was starting to die inside and didn't know if he had it in him to keep fighting after he'd thrown everything he had into the last eighteen months.

Fuck.

So first thing on Monday we were at the doctor's office—he'd come in early for us so that he'd have time to talk without interruptions—and we got the low down. He wanted to start Justin on another course of chemo, which could continue at Sloan Kettering when we went in a couple of weeks. He also wanted to start up the radiation again, this time targeted on the tumors themselves. He was hesitant about the one in his left breast because that's over the heart and he didn't want to damage it, but I'd been reading about radiation and asked about the new gating radiation. That's a deal where they can somehow focus the radiation pretty much where they want it without much over spray. Doc wasn't convinced, though and Pittsburgh University Hospital didn't have the machine anyway. He suggested that we could ask when we got to Sloan.

You bet we will, Doc.

Justin sat quietly the whole time, holding my hand but not asking any questions. I think he was in shock.

After I took Justin back to Jennifer's to rest, I went to Vanguard. The move to New York was in less than two weeks and I was up to my ass in it. As soon as I got there Cynthia told me that Doctor Albans was on line seven. I picked up and he wanted to tell me the real story and either he or I or Jenn could tell him as much as we thought it would benefit him to hear.

Shit—isn't that bullshit?

I started to say that Justin should know everything, but the more I heard, the less I was convinced I was right about that.

OK, here it is in a nutshell.

The tumors in his lungs, because of their locations, were inoperable. Justin was a bad risk for a transplant because he was too weak to survive the surgery and with his medical history there was roughly a snowball's chance in Hell of him getting a new set anytime soon anyway.

The tumors in his breasts weren't good either. Christ, who knew that men get breast cancer? Well, they do. They would try to take care of them with radiation, but his recommendation was that, if it didn't work, we were looking at a double mastectomy.

He wanted to start the chemo this week and the radiation at the same time. The problem was that, although Justin looked better, he was still weak and rundown from the last go around. Because of this, they couldn't use the level of chemo and radiation that they wanted to so they would make do with a lower dosage of both, run him two weeks on and two weeks off through Christmas so that he'd be able to recover between rounds and then see where he was.

If he were stronger, if they thought he could survive the operation, they'd do the mastectomy in early January.

The hope was that the radiation would shrink the cancer in his lungs.

Christ. He was fucking nineteen years old.

I thanked Albans and stared out the window for about five minutes then got up, told Cynthia that I had to deal with something and drove over to Jenn's.

She was there, curled up on the couch I the living room. Justin was asleep upstairs. She asked me what the doctor had said and I gave her both conversations. She took it pretty calmly, all things considered, just nodding once in a while and asking an occasional question. We were speaking in low voices so that we wouldn't wake up Justin—and so that he wouldn't hear what we were saying.

We agreed that he didn't have to know about the mastectomies yet. They weren't definite and he could find out if he had to later.

He had to know about the chemo and the radiation, obviously, but he could be spared the knowledge that he wasn't a candidate for a transplant or any other major invasive surgery right now.

He didn't need to know that he was too weak to survive.

We didn't really talk all that much, Jenn and I, about this. I told her what the doctor had said and we agreed on what he should be told and that was about it. I think she was in shock, too.

Hell, so was I, when you come down to it.

Two days after that Justin was back at the hospital for his first treatments. He went about them matter of factly and with out any kind of fanfare.

He was starting to look like he was beaten before he even really started round two.

He was apathetic and accepting that he was going to die.

He was also becoming even more isolated from his friends than he had been when he was in New York for treatment and that wasn't even anyone's fault. His friends were, other than the family, a bunch of college students. They were busy with their studies and their papers and their projects. They had their romances and their breakups and all that adolescent angst that make college such a roller coaster ride—if you're not in cancer treatments.

His friends, though they cared about him—honest to shit they did—were kids and kids have even more trouble dealing with the possibility of death than adults do. It's one thing to lose a friend in high school to a car wreck or something 'normal', but to see someone go down to illness was harder. It was more drawn out, more painful somehow and they simply didn't know what to do to help. They would come over and not know what to say or where to sit.

You know how when you go to visit someone in the hospital you want to see them and feel sort or virtuous about being a good person and then you can't wait to get the Hell out of there? That was how it was and Justin saw as soon as they sat down.

Over the last year and a half, some of them organized blood drives, some of them tried to raise money to help with the expenses, some of them would call and a couple—Daphne, mostly—would come by just to hang out with him and maybe take him to a movie.

That was what he needed more than almost anything else, to be reminded that he was still—under all the shit and the pain and the crappy treatments and the puking and the rest of it—he was still Justin.

You want to know something that made me more proud of him than even facing down Hobbs and his asshole of a father?

After about a week or so of self-pity, he sort of came to a decision one day, seemed to say 'screw this' and started fighting again.

God, that was a good day. It was like walking into a dark room and turning a light on. All of a sudden you could see again.

It was a long haul and the move to Manhattan was a bitch. I went ahead to make sure that everything was in place. Instead of us doing the townhouse together, I did what I could and we agreed that he would fix up his studio when he was ready.

Because I had to put in long hours getting Vanguard/NY running, I brought in a nurse to make sure that Justin was taken care of. He hated that, but there was no choice. Even if he had stayed in Pittsburgh with his mother, she had to work to support herself and he would have had help there, too. I simply couldn't be with him as much as I had been the last time he was working with Sloan and Karen got him up and dressed and fed and to the hospital on time without fail.

His hair fell out again and he lost the weight he'd gained back.

He went to his classes at Pratt when he wasn't in the treatment room at Sloan and he would have moved mountains to get there. He found it frustrating that he couldn't do his best work when he was so fucking sick, but the professor took him aside one day and told him that the efforts he considered mediocre were better than almost everyone else in the class and he should do as much as he could. It was OK.

His platelet counts ranged from six up to a high of about twenty-five. If he got into an accident he would have bled to death like a hemophiliac.

At least once a week I would find him up in his studio—which now had the basics in it—crying because he was sick and tired and frustrated and just so fucking fed up with what was happening to him

I would hold him until it passed. Afterwards he would be embarrassed for causing me upset and the storm would pass for another week. He would then go about his business calmly until the next time.

No one other than me ever saw this. With friends or other students he never complained, never made any trouble. It was between us.

The agency was doing well quickly. We had a good rep to work with and we were the new kids on the playground so we seemed to get asked to pitch a lot of accounts that agencies that had been in town for a while were passed over for and we won more contracts than we lost. It was busy and exciting and I felt like I was being torn in two pieces.

During the day and at dinner meetings I was the complete cool, urbane professional. At night and on the weekends I was a caregiver who cleaned up vomit and rejoiced when he was well enough to sit up to watch a movie with me in bed.

And do you want to know what the absolute pisser was?

Even with the tantrums and the treatments, with the no sex and the exhaustion and the day-to-day Hell of the whole thing, I couldn't imagine him being anywhere else than with me and I just hoped to God that it would…last.

TBC 


	11. Chapter 11

Treatment Continues--11

So at first they told us at Sloan that he would have to go through the entire chemo thing again, but then the doctors said that Justin wasn't really strong enough to have the level of chemo that he needed so they would give him a lower dosage and basically cross their fingers. After that had run its course for a couple of months, they would use radiation to try to follow up on what the chemo had hopefully started.

With a little luck he would be able to actually go to a couple of classes and then with a whole lot of luck he would be able to  
actually matriculate as a full time student after the fall semester was over. I had stressed to the doctors that it was important that he be able to get out and be a normal kid for at least part of the time. He had to. He had to do normal things and talk about stuff that didn't have anything to do with blood counts or any of that crap. He needed to walk down a street with some asshole college kids whose biggest problem was whether or not they would be getting laid that weekend and whether or to order the pepperoni or the sausage.

He needed to worry about assignments and papers and being late for class instead of whether or not the anal fissures would come back.

God, he needed that so fucking badly.

The problem, as the doctor explained to me when Justin was asleep, was that he wasn't strong enough to take the full dose of chemo and the radiation probably wouldn't be strong enough to eliminate the tumors. The tumors in his breasts could be dealt with in a double mastectomy—didn't that just sound like a party—but the real problems were the tumors in his lungs.

The lung tumors, yeah, the lung tumors—the ones that are inoperable.

Anyway, the lung tumors are inoperable and even with gating—that's some hotshit way they have to control the radiation so that there isn't much over spray—even with the gating they won't use it on his left side because they're afraid of causing damage to his heart. Shit and fuck me.

He's not a candidate for a lung transplant. I asked. He wouldn't survive the surgery even if they could find a donor.

So, anyway, that's what happened. Justin would go to chemo early in the morning, like seven and then after about four or five hours of the chemo drip he'd force himself up and get a cab or a bus or a subway over to Parsons for a class maybe three times a week. He didn't have the energy to do more than two classes and the professors knew that he was sick, but he wouldn't let them make any allowances for him.

That was just so fucking like him—insisting that he'd do it on his own Goddamned terms. He insisted that his essays and sketches had to be the best in the damn class or he wouldn't turn them in.

No one else gave two craps about that, not really. Well, except Justin, of course.

Shit—I was just so fucking happy that he was out and dealing with other kids and normal day-to-day shit that I wouldn't have cared if he flunked everything. Honest to shit, I wouldn't have cared. God—just to see the look on his face when he would sit on the couch reading some assigned book or when he was busting his butt over some design project that was due, just like any normal nineteen year old—God that made my day every time.

And, Jesus, there were times when it was all he could do to drag himself out of the bed, out of the apartment and out of the hospital, but he did it almost every time.

I don't know if I could have done it. I honest to God don't know if I could have.

So finally6, finally the chemo rounds were over and he started on the radiation, which was a good thing because it didn't make him sick like the chemo did. His hair could start to grow back again and he looked healthy. Damn, he just looked so healthy and he had more energy and he could do things and go places—at least places that were fairly close by. His appetite started to return and it was looking good then. He did—his color was good and he just began looking and acting like Justin again, not like Cancer Boy. God, it was just so good to see that.

Jenn and Molly came to visit over Thanksgiving and we all went to see a couple of shows. He took them to the Met to see the exhibits and they started Christmas shopping and it was just so damn good. I went to work, but I saw them over the weekend and at dinner and we had fun together. We really did.

So Justin was in the radiation therapy after his family left and the doctor took me aside while he was still in the treatment room. We had been joking around with Manku, he was the regular tech and a good guy, and just having a good time—or as good a time you can have during treatment in a hospital.

So the doctor sort of took me into a corner and told me the deal. Here we were doing the radiation, thinking that it was helping and thanking our lucky stars because it didn't make him sick and his hair had grown back and he was happy and feeling pretty good—did I tell you?

The doctor, the one who was handling Justin's case looked at whatever machine or monitor of film you look at to see how that's coming. Do you want to know what she told me? I know, the shoe is about to drop here.

That fucking old dropped shoe.

She said that she'd never seen anything like it—she'd never seen new tumors appear while a patient was actually undergoing radiation therapy. It was a first. The new one, the new main one, anyway was another muscular tumor down near his ribcage. It had grown while he was undergoing radiation.

Jesus. It was a first for them, they'd never seen that happen before.

Then the oncologist told me that the surgery that they had hoped to perform sometime after Christmas, the one that would hopefully remove the primary tumors and hopefully either stop or slow the spread of the cancer—you remember that surgery? The possible double mastectomy because of the breast tumors? You remember?

Well, it's not going to happen because they can't pinpoint which site is the primary tumor and now the fucking cancer cells are fucking everywhere—in his blood, in his muscles, his lungs, his breast—fucking everywhere.

They need to find the primary tumor before they'll operate and they seem to be having this debate about which one it is—shit, OK, I'm not a doctor, but does it even matter at this point? I mean—fuck.

Oh, God.

And so now the plan is to give him another year—another Goddamned year!—of chemo and then see where they are. One week on then two or three off so that he can recover from that Goddamned poison that they hoped would save his life and now looks like it's doing dick.   
The classes that he loves so much, the ones that were his only link to reality, the ones where he could pretend for a few hours that he was normal and healthy—those classes? They have to go. No time, no strength.

He has to quit them

Jesus.

Another year of chemo. Even the fucking doctor said "God willing". That's what he said. "God Willing."

I don't know how to tell him this. I swear to God that I don't. If there was someone—anyone—else who could do it and have it make sense, take away some of the unfairness of it I'd fly them here from Timbuktu if I had to, but thee isn't anyone and soon I'll have to tell him that all the progress we thought was happening was all bullshit and a week or so after Christmas he starts the daily trip to Sloan Kettering to start the chemo that probably won't work because they don't know what else to do for him.

Before they left from her Thanksgiving visit Molly and Jenn spent a day with Justin baking meringue cookies then putting them together with icing to form a sort of edible Christmas tree table centerpiece sort of thing. Then they went out—or maybe they brought them when they flew in, I don't know—and got these pins. You've seen them—the ribbon pins to remember this or that…the pink ones for breast cancer, the red ones for AIDS, you know the ones. Anyway, they had these things and they handed them out to the family back home and they wore them and they gave one to me. It's gold. OK, it's probably not solid  
gold, but it looks like it with no other colors on it, just the gold in the shape of one of those ribbons.

The gold ribbons—they're for kids with cancer and yeah, I wear the one they gave me on my coat.

You want to know what it's like this time around?

It sucks.

It just plain flat out fucking sucks.

It's wrong and it's unfair and if I believed in a God I'd want to know why the fuck this sweet, gentle kid who's never had a chance to live or do a thousand things that everyone takes for granted has to go through this. I'd want to know why he went through this once and was handed hope in a basket and then the basket blew up into a million pieces and it's back to square one and this time you know that the odds are that there won't be a square two.

I'd want to know why this has to tear the family apart and why it has to be like this.

I'd say that the good that comes out of something like this—the knowledge that they have friends who love them and who will do anything damn thing in the world to try to help or make it better, if only for an evening out to dinner or an afternoon at a movie, who skip work and haul into some blood bank to donate the blood and the platelets and whatever is needed that week is nice and all of that but they all know that in the end it won't make any difference.

Even knowing that if it was one of the others in the extended family that everyone would rally around whoever needed the rallying—sure, that's nice and I suppose that it helps, but in the end none of it is going to change what's happening.

So—you do what you can and you know that it isn't much, but you pick up the phone and you invite them out and you make sure that they're invited to whatever birthday or anniversary or Christmas party is coming up and when Jenn wants to talk on the phone for two hours you listen and when she wants to cry in your arms you hold her so that she can go back and put a smile on and do it again for one more day and one more week and one more month and one more year.

God willing.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Break --12 

There was one good thing that happened that I forgot to mention.

No, really there was.

I guess that it was about six months or so ago that it happened. Justin was just finishing a round of chemo—his last round for that phase in fact, he felt like shit and looked worse, but he knew he was finished for a while so he was feeling –well, happy' would be stupid, but he was feeling good about it.

We were in Pittsburgh at that point, staying in the loft. I had a meeting that ran late, so I was rushing to pick him up. The traffic  
was bad, it was raining. The day at work hadn't gone all that well and I was just hoping that there might, just maybe might be some good news from him when I got him.

I pulled up to the front of the hospital, the place we always meet, and he was standing there, under the overhang with this big damn sunshine smile in place.

When he got in the car it was like old times when I'd pick him up at St. James or something. "You're just so not going to believe what happened. You're just so totally fucking not going to believe it!"

"They turned you into a girl and you're a lesbian."

"Fuck you. I was in the treatment room and this woman walked in—she was from Make-A-Wish—did you know that my Mom had called them? Anyway, she told me that we're all going on my wish. Honest to God, we're all going!"

"What the fuck are you talking about? You're like a decade too old for that and when the hell did you ever talk to them?"

I pulled into traffic and headed the jeep back to the loft—he always needed to rest after the treatment—and he was practically bouncing out of the damn seat.

"I told you, my Mom talked to them a few months ago and they said that since I was only eighteen when I was diagnosed and I'm still a teenager they'll bend the rules a little and we can go. All of us can go, Mom and Molly and you and me. We're all going—can you fucking believe it?"

"Justin—how the fuck can you go away now?" I didn't want to rain on his parade, but c'mon.

"Dr. Ortiz OK'd it. I just asked him upstairs and he said it would be good for me. I'll take the meds I have to and there's a hospital pretty close if I need it and it'll be fine, Brian. It will, you'll see. It'll be great."

OK, I'll bite. "Where are we all going?"

"Mexico. You told me what a great time you had there and I've been to Europe and it's warm there now, so we're all going. We're going to the west coast, the Pacific and we'll be there for like a week or ten days and—it's going to be so great!"

God, he was speaking exclamation points.

"When are we supposed to go? I have work and don't you have—things to do?"

"God, Brian, ask for a damn week off, will you? And my chemo is over for now and—this is going to be so great!"

Damn exclamation points again.

There was nothing I could do. I spoke to Gardner the next day and explained to him what was going on. He seemed actually happy for us all, well, OK, he seemed that way even though I knew he was pissed that I'd be away for a long week or two, but he accepted tat it was going to happen. I agreed to take my laptop with me and check in on the campaigns that were up in the air, I agreed to e-mail in daily and that I'd even keep my phone with me. I did state that it would be off after about five in the evening, local time, so deal with it and he went along with that. We'd leave in a week.

OK, we had a week of Justin recovering from the latest round of chemo, which was almost enough—well enough so that he could reasonably function, anyway, and we crammed a bunch of shopping into it since he'd lost weight and all his clothes were too big for him. Molly, growing, had the opposite problem, but that was Jenn's headache.

We were provided with a limo to the airport, stopping along the way to pick up Mom and Sis. Craig, upon learning that I was going, remembered some hotshit client he couldn't miss and opted out. No one was sorry.

We were met at the airport curb by a rep from Make-A-Wish and the airlines, given VIP privileges and escorted to the First class lounge to wait for the flight.

It seemed that the airline—Liberty Air—regularly donated tickets to reputable charities, Make-A-Wish being one of them. Damn, I hadn't known that and decided then and there to do an ad for them—gratis—letting people know about the fact that they extended themselves now and then. OK, sure, I know it's PR and a tax write-off, but thank God they do it, them and companies like them. The hotel in Mexico was giving us—OK, they were giving the charity, Make-A-Wish—something   
like 75 off the rooms and the meals were on the house.

So the wait in the airport was about as painless as such things can be, despite the requisite photos with the various reps to show everyone how special they all were to help the poor sick waif. Justin took it well and Molly was all right, if a bit overshadowed by being the younger tag along sister yet again. After maybe an hour or so, we were shown to one of those golf cart things they have in airports and driven to the gate. You know something? I never thought about just how cool they were until I got to ride on one. OK, I know I sounding lame here, but I got a charge out of it…just driving past all those peasants and knowing they were wondering just who the Hell we were to rate the special treatment.

OK, fine, I admit it…there's still a part of me that likes shit like that, OK?

We boarded the plane, first class, priority seating and settled in. Now, I've flown business class any number of times, but first class really is more comfortable. I know, I know, anything would be better than being one of the cattle, but first is a kick. You get these big comfortable leather seats with everything you can think of at your fingertips. You have your TV and your choice of movies or news, you have the phone and your computer hookup. You have enough food to crash the plane. You have the attendants catering to your every whim—especially when you're with someone like Justin who just has to turn on his smile and it's like Mary Tyler Moore turning the world on. I think they would have let him fly the damn plane if he'd asked.

We sat next to each other, of course, Molly and Jenn in the seats directly in front of us. I'm not sure if the attendants knew we were gay or not, but I'm pretty sure they had their suspicions. I sure as Hell know that Tony' was taking a damn close interest in Justin until I gave him a couple pf good looks. I guess he clued in at that point because from then on Joanie' helped us with whatever we needed help with.

In fact, we didn't need much at all. Justin's appetite still wasn't hitting on all cylinders and he was tired since he'd been too excited to sleep the night before. And he is still dealing with the effects of recent chemo; let's not forget that, after all. I reclined his seat, having declined Tony's offer to help, and arranged a blanket over him. I think he slept almost the whole way there. Molly was watching whatever she was watching on the video and Jenn seemed to be reading most of the way. I spent a couple of hours going over the new ads for Purina and roughed in some ideas for Liberty's freebie and soon enough we were closing in on Ixtapa.

Ixtapa, that's where we were going. It's a resort town on the west coat of Mexico a bit north of Acapulco. It's maybe a couple of miles from what used to be a sleepy fishing village call Zihijatenjo, or something like that and it has these amazing beaches and warm weather and palm trees…damn, it's nice.

We were met again at the local airport and driven to our hotel, which was spread out over about fifteen acres of manicured grounds and beachfront. After checking in—and being met at the front desk with cold fruit drinks to ward off the almost ninety degree heat, we were taken, again by little golf cart, to our rooms. Boys together and girls together was what we had assumed, but the bellboy seemed to think that I was with Jenn, maybe her boy toy or her second husband or something. Justin set him straight, as it were, with a casual arm around my waist and his take no prisoners walk into our room and a kiss on my shoulder when he saw the king sized bed.

It was apparent that we would be the talk of the employees lounge for a day or so.

So we're checked into our rooms, it's still only abut two in the afternoon, Molly has already changed and taken off to one of the three beaches the hotel owns and Jenn was ready to sit by the pool with some magazines after she made sure that Justin had enough sun block to smother the entire country.

I thought that Justin would be tired from the travel, but he had slept and was excited to be there. He changed, made me get a suit on—reminding me that not only were we not alone but we were in a Catholic country—and we found out way to the smallest beach. It was lined with lounge chairs and was a small bay, protected on almost three sides. The surf, such as it was, was gentle and there was a school of some kind of fish—maybe two feet long—that seemed to hang out and wait for the tourists to throw them crusts of bread from the nearby restaurant. There were rocks; large rocks, all around and some  
kind iguanas seemed to spend a lot of their time just hanging out on them catching the sun. In the week we were there, they never bothered anyone and after a while I started to think of them as amphibious squirrels.

I set Justin up on a chaise, making sure that he 3was out of the direct sun and under a palm tree. He was still slathered with that sun block—I think he was more susceptible to burning because of the chemo or something, and made sure that he was OK. I walked over to the restaurant that bordered one side of the little bay, getting myself a beer and him a soda. As I was waiting one of the other guests at the bar struck up a conversation.

"You just get here? You're pretty white."

Shit, the guy was hitting on me. Now, normally that wouldn't be a problem, it's not like I don't know how to handle it, but I just  
really wasn't in the mood. I mean, Hell, I'd just gotten there, the place was beautiful. Justin was happy and relaxed, it was warm and the sun was shining. I was feeling good and I just wasn't in the mood, you know?

"I'm not interested." My standard line.

"It looks like your little brother is down for the count, he won't care."

"My drinks, if you don't mind."

"You don't have to decide now, I'll be here later, or tomorrow."

I gave the guy one of my looks. He was flabby and had that comb over thing going—I mean, Christ. "I'm not interested. Fuck off."

"Why? You like em young?"

"I don't like em like you. I said fuck off." I got my drinks, the bartender staring at the two of us, catching what was going on. The fat bald guy moved off.

"Don't worry about him, he tries that with every man who shows up here, and if they look anything like you, he just tries harder. He gives you any trouble, you just let me know, OK?"

I turned to the bartender. He was decent; there was a time when I would have done him. I might still consider it, depending how the week went. He seemed to mean what he was saying. "Why? What do you care?"

"Because I get tired of that shit myself and you must get it a lot. You're probably here with someone, right?" I nodded. "So, what do you need that asshole ruining your fun for?" He held out his hand. "I'm Alex."

"Brian."

"Good to meet you. You want to see some of the local places, you and your friend, you ask me. No big deal, no problem—just places the locals go to unwind." He caught my suspicions. "No, no shit, just some of my friends. We play pool, have a couple of beers, maybe dance, that's all. Mexico is great, but it's not exactly liberal, don't be stupid unless you want trouble."

He seemed to mean it. "Thanks, Alex. I'll remember that."

"See ya."

"Later." A few nights later we took him up on his offer—nothing special, just a bunch of guys in a bar that could have been Woody's if Woody's had palm trees outside. We had a few beers, played some pool, just a regular evening out. No one bothered us and it was nice.

Anyway.

I walked the fifty yards or so back to the lounge chairs under the trees, Justin smiled his thanks at the soda. "Want to swim?"

I nodded; it was hot even without the trolls—or maybe despite them. I held out my hand, pulling him up. The water was warm, maybe eighty degrees, and damn it felt good. We swam, floated, paddled around for maybe half an hour before we'd had enough.

After another hour or so of lying on the chairs basically vegging we headed back to the room. The sun was hot and tropical and Justin was still sick. He showered—OK, I helped him, and helped him relax while we were in there, then he went down for a nap until dinner. I was sitting on the balcony, looking over a client file when Jenn let  
herself in.

"How is he?"

"Fine, sleeping."

"I thought that if you two are up to it, we could meet for dinner at the main dining room at seven."

"Sure, that sounds fine."

"Did he have his meds?"

"Yes."

"Have you allowed for the time difference? It could be a problem if you haven't…"

"Obviously."

"Have you made any plans for tomorrow?" 

This was starting to sound like twenty questions, I was hot and tired and had the beginnings of a headache from the sun and the travel day. I wasn't in the mood for this. "No, we haven't talked about anything. Have you?"

"Molly wants to go into town and do some shopping."

I just looked at her; it was beyond me what she was getting at this time. Oh, screw it. "Why do you ask?"

"She would like you and Justin to come with us. I think she has some idea of us being a family, maybe doing some Christmas shopping or something like that."

This wasn't what I expected.

"Look, Jenn…it's not a good idea to let her think that this is some kind of family trip to Disney world. I'm not her father, we're not married. We're all here because Justin is sick and that's about all there is to it."

She sat on the edge of the balcony railing. "She needs a family right now. She's lost her father and now she may lose her brother." She paused while I wondered if she was considering tears as a final plea. She didn't, thank God. "Please, Brian."

Damn it. "I'd rather that he just have some downtime tomorrow. If he's willing we can go to town the day after—if we can go in the morning before it gets too hot, but as soon as he gets tired we're taking a cab back here so he can rest."

She smiled that Pepsodent smile, the one she probably used to win prom queen, nodded her thanks and left me alone. A couple of minutes later when I checked on Justin he was awake, just lying there. He looked over at me.

"She's right. Molly has cast you as a surrogate father since Dad crapped out."

"Bullshit."

"That day she came to the park with us and Gus was when it started. She saw you as a father then and it stuck. Just don't mess her over, OK?"

"That's such bull…"

"I mean it, don't hurt my sister, she has enough shit to deal with." God, he sounded like the cliché of the big bad brother warning off a date.

"Don't worry."

Then he relaxed. He knew I meant it.

So the next day we took a cab into the local town. OK, we took a cab directly to the local town's tourist center where they had about a million stalls selling anything you could want from Mexico—serapes, hammocks—Justin wanted to get a couple for the loft which I declined. He bought them anyway to string on the roof, weather permitting. They had those wedding dresses and enough silver jewelry to strip at least twenty silver mines. The ladies bought about ten thousand things for Christmas presents, I bought tequila, Justin bought real vanilla extract by the liter for like three dollars to bring back to Deb for  
her cooking and I wandered off and found what I was looking for. After about two hours the sun was making itself known, even in the shade and Justin had enough. Leaving the women, we caught a VW bug cab back to the hotel. We changed into our suits and headed to the pool to hang and rest.

That's where we spent the day with just an hour break to get some lunch.

That was pretty much how we spent most of the week, in fact. We would get up around nine, get dressed...maybe after a little morning eye opening of one kind or another…head down for breakfast then make the major decision of the day—beach or pool. Once that was settled we would hang, swim when we got hot, get something to drink when we were thirsty and eat almost non-stop, or Justin did, anyway. I tried to be reasonable. Sometimes Molly or Jenn or both would join us, sometimes  
not. We ate most, but not all meals together.

The ladies went shopping a couple more times, leaving us alone.

In the evening Justin would usually be tired so we would maybe see the hotel movie or just sit on the balcony together. A couple of nights we pulled lounge chairs down near the surf and just lay there, listening to the water and the distant music from the hotel nightclub. It was far enough away to just be background.

I like Mexico. I really do. I know—it's poor and there aren't enough jobs and Mexico City is over crowded and polluted and there are more problems then you can count, but the people I met were kind and there are parts that are incredibly beautiful. There's a grace there that I like and a kind of dignity almost like it's been here for a long time and it's still going to be here after you go home and move on to something else—sort of like Justin. It's, I guess it's solid or something. God, listen to me. I sound like a travel brochure.

The last night we were there, the night before we had to leave to fly back to Pittsburgh and whatever the Hell would happen there, we were down by the water. It was maybe ten at night. It was warm, we'd had a great dinner of fresh local fish grilled in front of us and Jenn had taken Molly someplace. Justin was holding my hand and neither of us was saying much. It was nice there. It was private and it was peaceful and it was—nice. I used to hate that word, it's just so lame, but that's what it was—calm and pleasant and safe and warm. 

I pulled the thing I'd found in the marketplace out of my pocket, sitting up and facing Justin. We were still holding hands. I lifted  
his up and tied the thing on. He watched me, even in the dark. The moon was light enough to see.

I heard once that the moon in the tropics is bright enough that you can read a newspaper by it. Well, I doubt that, but it was bright enough to see what I'd given him. I was worried that he wouldn't like it, or that he might not want it, but I was wrong to worry. He was happy.

It was a shell bracelet, like the one I wore, the one I'd found in Mexico years before, the one that my nephew John had stolen and Justin had returned. I'd had his initials carved into one of the shells, like mine had. Then he dropped my hand and untied the strings and I thought that he'd had second thoughts or something.

He took his off then he reached for my right hand and untied my bracelet.

He traded them…I had his and he had mine. He looked a question at me, to see if it was all right.

It was.

He smiled that smile he has. You know the one I mean, the one where he's so happy that he can't really talk so it does the talking for him, then he pulled my hand over to him—we were still holding hands—and kissed my fingers.

That was all he had to do.

It was—nice.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Note: A few months ago there was a bit of a bright spot in this story—  
the real story. The Make-A-Wish Foundation sent Lisa and her family  
to Mexico for a much needed two-week vacation. During this long pull,  
there have been any number of individuals and groups and  
organizations who have helped. Make-A-Wish is one of the good ones.

**Again...Still**

****

So it started again.

This time we were staying with Justin's grandparents on Long Island  
and making the drive into the city every day, five days a week for  
the treatment. One week on, two or three off so that he could recover  
from the chemo. Sometimes we'd go back to Pittsburgh for the off  
weeks, sometimes not.

We were back at Sloan Kettering, again and were welcomed back like  
old friends. It's strange in a way. You get to know a lot of these   
people because you're going through this fucking nightmare and you're  
all in the same boat or working for the same goal and then someone  
who you get to know well, someone who becomes almost one of your best  
friends just disappears and you know that the etiquette is not to ask  
because you may not want to hear the answer.

You know what had probably happened to them and if you didn't talk  
about it then it wasn't as real. OK, maybe they were all better, but  
maybe they weren't.

I made the mistake of asking one of the nurses why Justin had been  
moved to another cubicle during one of his chemos. She politely and  
efficiently told me that the boy who had been in there with him, in  
the other bed, was having a procedure and that Justin would be moved  
back in a few minutes. Sure enough, maybe twenty minutes later Justin  
was brought back in from the empty room they'd stashed him in. He  
told me that the other kid had some kind of seizure and that the  
nurses had moved him to the other room so that they could do whatever  
had to be done.

I found out the next day that the kid had died.

Shit.

It was just so matter of fact, so—shit—so clinical. It was so  
Goddamned every day.

And it was every day there.

One day I parked the car, got Justin upstairs and started and  
remembered that I had to do an errand. I went back out to get the car  
and walked by an entrance I'd never noticed to Sloan before. The  
reason I noticed this time was that a hearse was pulling out, stopped  
for traffic. The driver said a pleasant Good Morning' to me as I  
went past him. He was making a pick up.

**Goddamnit.**

After a while you just sort of stop reacting.

Well, that's the way it was for me, anyway. I think Justin just  
blocked it out most of the time. I know there were times when he  
didn't, of course and then he'd be depressed and retreat either  
upstairs and close the door or he'd stay in the room and take a  
mental trip someplace. Same thing.

I'd try to hold him then. I knew that if he wanted to talk that he   
would, and sometimes he did, but often I'd just hold him and let him  
work it out.

His grandparents were being good about everything. I have to hand  
them that. They had no problems with our sharing a room and they  
didn't ask stupid questions. They were both intelligent people and  
thank God that they didn't make problems because we had just about  
all we could handle.

We actually had talked about staying at Ronald McDonald House again  
but there were problems there this time around. They were booked up,  
for starters and they said, tactfully, that Justin was really getting   
too old and that there were kids who were like two and six years old  
who needed the space—that they were coming over from Greece and the  
last room had been promised. They were nice about it, they're nice  
people, but they were politely firm, especially when they found out  
that his grandparents lived pretty locally. I know that they had a  
point, but I guess that we sort of outstayed our welcome.

Well, fine. Justin would probably rather have stayed in a real house  
with his family, anyway.

We'd get up about five thirty every morning while it's still dark,  
get ready and make the drive into the city so that we could be there  
by about seven to get the IV started. He'd lie there for a few hours,  
dozing, reading, finish up that shit, disconnect from the tubes, and  
stagger to his feet. I'd wheel him out and down to the parking garage  
and we'd go back to Long Island for another night.

The one piece of good news is that he's managing to take a couple of  
these college classes he loved. It's just about the only normal thing  
he has going now. He takes two classes at a local college and he  
kicks ass in them, too.

That's good.

We were afraid that he'd have to quit or postpone them, but they're  
helping his morale so much that the doctors want him to continue.

He was trying to put a good spin on everything the last week at  
Sloan. There was a new kid there, maybe fifteen years old. A girl  
from England who had just lost her hair to the treatments, her port  
had just been installed and she was sad and in some pain from it.  
Justin was in the same room for his drip that day and he pointed out  
one of his scars, the one on his neck near his collarbone from an old   
shunt.

"Want to see Frankenstein?" He pulled the collar of his tee down so  
she could see the thing. The look on her face was horror. "I just  
blush and tell anyone tacky enough to ask that it's a hickey. Works   
every time." She actually laughed.

OK, shit, that's another thing I just remembered. The asshole doctors  
made him delay the start of the new chemo rounds because the tumor in  
his lefty breast wasn't big enough to warrant the round. Excuse me?

He has tumors in both lungs, his fucking lymph nodes are affected—the  
ones he has left, the ones that weren't removed—and there's another  
tumor in his right breast, but because the one in the lefty was  
smaller than whatever guidelines they use, they insisted on waiting.  
As it was explained to me the tumor was only one and a half  
centimeters and they waited until it reached three.

I mean—Jesus.

So we're started again, the hair is falling out and he's sick as shit   
and I'm wondering how long he's going to be able to go through this.

His grandparents do what they can. They cook his favorite foods and  
at first he tried to eat some to be polite and because he knew that  
they were worried but after a while he just gave up with that and  
would smile, apologize and make his way to the couch to sleep.

I see the looks on their faces and I know that this is tearing them  
up the way it does with anyone who sees what's really involved. I see  
what it's doing to his mother and his sister and his friends.

I know what it's doing to me and I wish sometimes that I didn't know  
what it was doing to him, but I do and it's cutting my heart out.

Everyone tries to keep a positive thing going and to stay cheerful  
and optimistic and all that shit but at what point is it simply too  
much? When do you tell the doctors that they can take their  
treatments and their tests and their needles and their bills and just  
shove it?

When do you decide that the child has suffered more than anyone  
should be asked to? When do you say that's enough, stop this?

Yes, I know. If a child, a young man or a young woman—or even an old   
one—can still fight they should. Of course. I know that.

"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying  
of the light."

Yes, I've read it, too.

I know that you don't give up because maybe tomorrow or next week or  
next month the breakthrough drug or procedure will be available and  
it will make all the difference.

I know that.

I do.

But I also see the look on his face because he knows that when his  
friends come over they're mentally chalking up brownie point in some  
cosmic game—doing their good deeds before they get on with their real   
lives.

I see the expression he has when he sees that IV filled with that  
crap which he knows is poisoning him while it tries to make him  
better being brought to his room and set up. He watches the fluid  
drip into the tubes, almost hypnotized by the steady dripping.

If I thought that this was helping, if I thought that it was making  
him better, if I believed that at the end of this he'd be able to get  
up and live his life—even just a reasonable semblance of it, then it  
would be worth everything that's going on now. It would be worth the  
two and a half years of agony and terror and sickness and despair and  
disappointment and heartbreak.

If I thought that it was working it would be different. If I thought  
for a minute that the ups have in any way balanced out the downs I'd  
say that it was worth it. If I thought that the quality of life that  
he's living now and might, maybe, have to look forward to, were worth  
the price that's being paid now…that would be different.

But the truth is that I don't think that it is and I think that  
Justin is going to die and that the disease is going to beat him and  
win.

He's so weak now that the doctors won't do the surgery to remove  
whatever they were going to remove—his breasts? More nodes? What  
difference does it make? The tumors in his lungs are inoperable and  
not responding to either chemo or radiation.

What's the Goddamned point?

And you know something else? It's not just his life that's being  
destroyed by this. His mother is a martyred mess. His sister is  
neglected and resentful and angry and scared to death because her  
brother has become the the thing with cancer' in the next room—when  
he's well enough to even be in the next room.

His father has checked out.

And I'm—I'm a different person than I was. I'm not me anymore. I've  
become part of JustinandBrian. I've become the man who shows up with  
Justin at Sloan. I'm the ad man who has to schedule his appointments  
to dovetail with the radiation schedule or the chemo schedule or the   
MRI appointment.

I'm an appendage to a person who has a disease and the disease has  
become the dominant force in every damn day, day in and day out. It'  
takes over every aspect of your life. It dictates where you live,  
when you get up in the morning, what you do all day, whom you can do  
it with and when you go to bed. It tells you what you can and can't  
eat and drink. It decides if you can go to school or to work, what  
you can wear and whom you'll be spending your days with. It' makes  
all the decisions and it seems too often that any free choice is gone  
with the wind, at least for the foreseeable future.

And you know, if I thought that it was going to work, all the  
treatments and all the pain and all the upheaval and expense, if I  
really believed that he'd be OK at the end of some endless tunnel  
then I'd think it was fine and just the price you pay, but I don't  
think that anymore.

I did. I used to think that, but now I don't.

How much can you put someone through? How much can you ask them to  
fight?

I know—nothing matters but life; survival is the most important  
thing. I know I've heard all of the arguments about it. I know that  
when a child is sick—and in a lot of ways Justin is still a child—you   
do whatever you can and then you do more. I know that.

But when do you decide that the child has suffered enough?

Is it when the fifteenth tumor is discovered? Is it with the fourth  
or the fifth or the tenth round of chemo? Is it the thousandth time   
they throw up or the fiftieth movie or pizza with their friends that  
they're too sick to get out of bed for? Is it when the doctors say  
that the chemo this time will last another year? Is it when the child  
cries in pain and frustration every week or is it when they cry every  
day?

OK, fine, I know. This time the report from the front lines doesn't  
really have a point, just another check in from the other side, but  
you know what? That's the way this thing is. Day by day.

Week by week.

Month by month.

And now it's year by year.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**Remission #14**

**Justin's POV**

I know that Brian and the others have been dealing with a lot since this has all started. I know that. And I know that they've been through a lot and that everyone is scared and angry and all of that. I know that, too.

I know that I am.

I know that the bills that aren't being covered by my mother's insurance are killing her and that Brian is putting his job on the line to be with me and help me with everything and I wish that I could do something or say something that would make them stop.

It's not that I don't appreciate them or anything like that. It's not that I don't love them. It's just that I know what this is costing everyone and I feel so guilty about it.

It's not like I wanted cancer, sure, but this is pretty much fucking up everyone I know and I wish there was something I could do to make it better for everyone.

Look, I know that there are really only two alternatives here-either I'll get better or I'll die, but sometimes I wish that it was settled one way or the other. I really do. Every morning I wake up and for a minute, maybe two minutes , maybe five if I'm really lucky, I forget that I'm sick. I don't remember the first thing in the morning. I'll usually wake up pretty slowly, you know how it is when you just sort of climb out of it into being awake and I'll feel Brian's warmth next to me-except that I don't really notice it unless he's not there for some reason-and for just a couple of minutes I don't remember that I'm sick. I forget that this is probably another day that I'm going to spend on a bed in a hospital with tubes in me and poison being fed into my veins and that when it's over I'll feel so damn awful that I'll wish that I was already dead.

I forget, well until I remember again, and before that happens I think about whether or not I remembered some assignment for school that was due or if I have any errands to run or what shift I'm working at the diner. I lay there and I try to get my day lined up and then it hits me that today is one of the mornings when I have to have chemo or radiation or another MRI or more blood work and then it's like the sun isn't shining and there are clouds and the wind is going to be cold and it's just another day to get through.

When this all started, when I was first diagnosed I thought that I'd get the treatment and it would work and then I'd be OK. I know that was stupid or naïve or whatever, but I just assumed that. I mean, that's the way things are supposed to work, right? You get sick, you take your medicine and do what the doctor tells you, you eat good food and get plenty of rest-when you're not throwing up-and then you get better.

Simple, follow the steps and you'll be fine. That's what's supposed to happen.

It doesn't always turn out that way.

I did everything I was supposed to. I went through the treatments, I moved away from home so that I could get the best care they said was available. I lost my hair, dropped out of school for a while so I could just concentrate on getting better. I threw up ten times a day and there was a lot more crap that I'd rather forget about and after all that you know what? They said that I was getting better.

Honest to shit they did, all those hotshit doctors. They said I was in remission. That's what they told me. They said that the tumors had shrunk and that it was looking pretty good. My hair started growing back and I could eat again, not like I used to, but at least I didn't look like a fucking victim of Auschwitz anymore and I felt better.

I really did. OK, maybe not 100, but better enough that Brian and I could make love now and then and we could go out sometimes and I could take a couple of classes like a normal person. I still got tired easily and I wasn't hitting on all cylinders, but I felt so much better that it seemed like it was going to be alright.

So then the other shoe dropped and we're not just back at square one, we're about three steps behind.

I know the others try to protect me, try to keep my spirits up and all of that, but I'm not stupid and when I ask the doctors they tell me the truth. They couch it in fairly optimistic terms, but it's not hard to cut through the bullshit and see what's really going on.

I have new tumors and a couple of the old ones; the ones in my lungs are inoperable. I asked about a transplant and they won't actually come out and say that there's no time soon that's going to happen, but I get the picture. And, fuck me, I saw the look on the tech's face when they found that new tumor on my ribs while I was in the middle of the last round of radiation. He looked like he couldn't fucking believe that a new one had grown while I was in treatment. He called the doctor right then and there and, OK, he went into the next room but there's nothing wrong with my Goddamned hearing and it was pretty obvious that he wasn't telling the guy anything that he wanted to hear

Oh, shit-and do you want to know what another kick in the teeth was?

While I was going through the first round, when Brian and me were living at Ronald McDonald House and getting the lay of the land and still naïve enough to think that this might be over in time for Christmas-the first Christmas, not the third one-while we were doing that I found out that my Mom was having a biopsy to check out a lump she'd found in her right breast.

She was scared to shit, so scared that she was afraid to even call the doctor to find out the results and she was dealing with me and my damn bills and being a single parent to Molly and fighting with the school about getting some of the tuition money back after I'd been forced to take a medical leave.

She'd gone through the biopsy with just a local anesthesia so she was awake through the whole thing and I found out later-like a year later, that she watched as they removed this fucking thing that was about the size of a golf ball from her.

Jesus.

I mean, fucking Jesus.

She didn't even tell me about it, Molly spilled the whole thing one day because she didn't know that I'd been kept out of that particular loop. God, that pissed me off.

It turned out to be benign, but fuck. You know?

Everyone is trying to make it easier for me and God I love them for doing it, but sometimes I just want to have everyone tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I get so damn tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me and knowing that when I go to the bathroom or something they're talking about what's really happening with the treatments.

I know they do this, I've known about it since the beginning when Brian and my Mom were talking and thought that I was asleep. You learn a lot when people don't think you can hear, you know? That's when I learned what kind of cancer I have and how aggressive it is and that the odds were that I'll be dead within five years of the diagnosis. No one has had the balls to tell me that to my face yet, even after all this time, but that doesn't mean that I don't know it.

Of course I know it. I've known it since I learned the name of what I have.

Face it, I can surf the net with the best of them and it wasn't even hard to find.

I just so hate this.

I hate being so fucking sick and I hate feeling like crap all the time.

I hate the pity I see when people know what's wrong with me.

I hate all the well-meaning smiles and prayers and tokens that come my way.

I hate that Brian and I can't make love like we used to.

I hate that I'm nineteen years old and I'm probably not going to see twenty-one or two.

I hate that I'm not me any more, that I've become this shell that houses a parasite that's eating me alive.

I hate that I've become the charity of the month at my school. Trying to help? Sure, but it's like I'm being hit with a brick over and over again about it.

I hate seeing the guilt from people who are healthy, the ones who thank God it isn't them.

I hate that I won't see Molly get married and have kids.

I hate that I'll never have kids of my own.

I hate what this is doing to my family.

I hate that my friends, most of them, anyway, don't know what to say to me-so they don't say anything and they've stopped calling.

I hate all the well-meaning strangers who think that they can make things better. Sure, it's nice that they leave me the cards and the notes and tell me that they're going to pray for me and I know it's pissy of me, but give it a rest, will you. Please? Treat me like a person, not a Goddamned walking time bomb.

I hate that my days are spent fighting a fight I probably won't win.

I hate that it's taking what time I have and stopping me from doing what I'd like-the things I love.

I hate seeing the look on Brian's face when he wonders how much longer he'll have to deal with this and then how guilty he feels when he knows it won't be all that much longer.

I hate that everyone treats me like a fucking piece of glass that's about to break.

I hate that everyone seems determined to cram a lifetime of things into a year or two-all the museums and the shows and all that shit.

I hate that I think that time is running out and there's not a Goddamned thing I can do about it.

I wish that I had more time.

I wish there was just one day I could wake up and know I was healthy again.

I wish that I could do normal things. I wish I could go to school and see a movie and go out to dinner and not have to worry about throwing up.

I wish that Brian and I could be like we were.

I wish I could look at my Mom and not see the terror she carries with her.

I wish I didn't know about shunts and rads and gating and anal fissures.

I wish that this wasn't happening.


	15. Chapter 15

**Remission #15 **

**Experiments **

It's just not working.

I know it isn't.

Everyone smiles and tells me that I'm doing great and that I'm brave but they're lies.

I'm not doing great. I'm sick and scared and tired of this and I wish…

And I'm not brave.

It may look like I am, but I'm not. I can put on a good show, I guess. I can do that. In fact I've gotten pretty good at it, but I'm not brave.

Every week, every couple of days I can't help it. I start thinking about everything that's happened, everything that I'm missing and am going to miss and-it hurts so damn much. I'm scared and I'm nineteen years old and my hair has all fallen out again and I sit there and I cry. Sometimes Brian is there and he holds me until I get it out this time and sometimes he's not home and I hold onto a pillow but it keeps happening every couple of days.

Then I get up and wash my face or fall asleep and it starts all over again.

The treatments aren't working.

You want to know how I'm going to spend my summer vacation? I'll tell you.

I was accepted into a program in Baltimore that does some hot shit experimental cancer treatments. They seem to think I'm a good candidate.

They're going to try a bone marrow transplant. They're hoping that it will help my immune system because it's pretty much crapped out after all the shit that's been happening the last couple of years, all the chemo and the radiation and the drugs.

Molly was tested and she's a good enough match. She's the donor and I felt really bad about that. I mean she's a kid, right? She should be going to summer camp for a couple of weeks, not going to some fucking hospital so they can stick needles in her. At least there's some new way to get the marrow that's easier on her. Somehow -don't ask me how it works cause God knows-they can extract the marrow cells from her blood so it's not an invasive procedure for her. That's good. It really is. I'm glad that it's going to be easy on her.

Oh, they want to help my T-cells-they have something to do with the immune system. I get transfusions of whole blood and platelets, but I guess I need to make more T-cells. That's what they're hoping this will do.

I doubt it, though.

This hasn't worked for anyone yet so I guess that's why they call it experimental.

The good thing is that once you're accepted into the program it's free, so that's good. I guess that's good.

The lead up to the whole procedure is pretty bad, though.

You see what they have to do is use chemo and radiation to kill off whatever is left of my immune system-and I don't think there's much left at this point-so that when they get to the bone marrow transplant it will be less likely my body will reject it. So I'm back on the treadmill of chemo five days a week for two weeks, then a week or ten days off to recover then they start all over. I get the platelet donations and the whole blood and all of that shit.

Yes, sure, the friends are still hauling to the local blood banks to donate and it's great of them to do it and all, but shit-I hate being the charity they all feel obligated to give to.

I guess it's worth doing.

I guess.

My mother is always so fucking optimistic it pisses me off, though. She's always saying crap like "When you have your own kids…." Or "Soon you'll be able to get your old job back if you want." Or, my favorite. "You and Brian should think about getting married."

Like Brian would ever marry anyone.

Like he'd ever marry me.

Like I'm going to see my twenty-first birthday.

My father can't deal with it. He mostly just talks to Molly because my mother always gives him updates on how I'm doing and I gather he doesn't take it all that well. He tends to do stuff like get on the phone with Molly for like a half hour and at the end throw out a 'Say hi to your brother for me'.

That's OK.

No. It really is.

I guess it must really suck to know your kid is probably going to die pretty soon. I mean, even if I wasn't gay that would be hard. I know he hates that Brian has been there for me instead of him, but that's the breaks, I guess.

I mean, I really can't picture Craig holding me while I'm barfing or crying or whatever. It's not really him.

So I've been going to a couple of classes at Pitt. Did you know that cancer is covered under the Federal Disabilities Act and they have to make allowances for me? Neither did I but they're actually pretty nice about it.

It turned out that the man who's the Dean of Students used to work on that end of things-I guess he used to be in the Admission Department and so he knows all about the laws about this. Anyway, he took a look at my transcripts and my SAT's and I was in, just that easy. He even found a professor who would be sympathetic if I had to miss a class or two-not that I want to trade on the pity vote, but shit.

You know something? The classes are the only place where I'm just another student. Most of the others don't even know I'm sick and they treat me like I'm normal. They're English classes, composition and lit class and I really like them. The prof is pretty good and I like that I'm just the guy in the fourth seat of the third row. I'm not the kid with cancer, I'm not 'poor Sunshine', I'm just me again.

I love that.

I wish it could stay like that, at least in class.

So this summer they start the experimental stuff.

I know what that means. It means that they don't know what else to do because the shit they've been trying hasn't done what they hoped it would.

They-my Mom, mostly-won't stop fighting for me and I know it's because she loves me but sometimes I wish hat she'd just let it go.

I don't want to die-Christ no. I don't.

I want to get though this and finish school and maybe even marry Brian and be with him and watch Molly get married and maybe see my Mom married again. I really want that. I want to be at Gus' graduation. I want to sell some paintings. I want to not be sick and for my hair to grow back.

I want-so much.

I want …it all.


	16. Chapter 16

** Chapter Sixteen******

How I spent my summer vacation, By Justin Taylor.

Well, it sucked, that's how I spent my summer vacation.

And when you consider the last couple of years, that's going some.

I told you how I'd been accepted into this experimental cancer program at the National Institute of Health in Bethesda, Maryland.

I'm not an idiot. I know that they're trying the experimental stuff because none of the normal treatments are doing shit.

The idea here was to get me into this nifty program—which is free because it's experimental and all which is good because even with insurance we're like almost three hundred thousand dollars in the hole and Mom may have to declare bankruptcy—anyway, I'm in the program and they use you like a guinea pig. It's supported by your tax dollars and they do a lot of important research there; they're working on AIDS and cancer and whatever else they're working on.

Here's how it went:

In the beginning of the summer the doctors did a lot of testing, both on my family and me. My blood family, I mean. People I share a gene pool with. Molly was the closest match for a bone marrow donation so she got lucky.

I went down to Maryland and did the usual round of stuff; blood work, respiratory workups and all the rest of it, CAT's MRI's, everything. Then Brian and I moved down there to a dorm like wing and they began this really strong round of chemo to kill off what little was left of my immune system.

That was fun, let me tell you. Before—over the last two years— they did chemo, but it wasn't designed to destroy anything except the cancer—which it didn't succeed in doing anyway. This time they were purposely trying to kill off an entire body function, at least temporarily. I guess it worked, too. I know I've probably never felt worse. My hair was gone, again and I threw up a lot, but that's becoming almost normal for me so what the fuck. There were problems, though. I was reacting badly and the side effects were bad enough that the doctors had to do MRI's or CAT's almost every day. I mean that for real. I'd have like five CAT scans a week. Well, it's not like I had anything else to do, you know?

Then while that all was finishing up they brought Molly down here for the weekend and she was attached to this machine that resembled a dialysis machine for like six hours straight. They took her blood and put it through this machine and it extracted bone marrow. Don't ask me how it worked, but it did and at least she didn't have to have actually surgery or anything. It was pretty easy on her and I was really happy about that. I really was. She's had to deal with all the fall out from my being sick and now she's even bleeding for me. At least it didn't hurt her more than a couple of needle sticks. She's really gotten the short end of this thing—I have Mom and all the attention and sympathy, but she's been shoved into the background. It's not fair, but no much is, is it?

Then they gave me her marrow through an IV drip.

The idea is that the marrow somehow contains some stem cells and they're supposed to somehow target the tumors and the cancer cells and—stem cells being the wunderkind they are—they're supposed to make healthy cells instead of diseased ones.

Fucking Bush wants this stuff outlawed. You want to see what he'd do if one of the twins had what I do? Stem cell research would be mandatory. God, I hate him.

Anyway, the theory sounds good, but there are a couple of problems.

First of all, because bone marrow counts as an organ transplant, I had to spend the next six to eight weeks locked in an isolation ward…they had to kill my immune system, remember? They didn't want to take any chance of infection when there was nothing I could do about it. Talk about boring. God, I felt like I was in jail.

Oh, of course they're nice and there are DVD's and games and books and all of that, but it was still being locked up.

Second, it's never worked. The treatment, I mean—it hasn't worked on anyone. Not on anyone. Nobody. No Body.

I don't think it's even worked on mice, but I could be the first.

That wasn't sarcastic, by the way. I really may be the first. That's the hope. I know as well as anyone it's a long shot, but when nothing else is working, you take what's offered, you know? I think hat this may be one of the last games in town. That's the way my grandfather would have put it, not to me, of course, but that's what he would have thought.

So I got the transplant and I'm in isolation for a few weeks and somehow, I've no idea how, I got a cold.

It was just a cold, I swear, but because of the thing I had to be moved to a separate facility so I wouldn't contaminate anyone else with the germs.

A cold doesn't sound like much, does it?

Well, remember that I have no immune system, nothing to fight it off with and so then I ended up with pneumonia. Now that was a problem because I have these malignant tumors in my lungs.

What can I say? I am a walking house of cards.

So finally after a few weeks they got rid of the pneumonia and that was pretty bad and then I had to go back into isolation. Have you ever wanted to be alone? Sure you have, everyone does now and then. I, on the other hand, would have given my arm to be able to open a window or walk outside. Even when Brian or Mom came o visit they had to wear the whole surgical scrub/mask get up. I know, I understand it; it's just so—depressing.

Around the time I was finally, finally due to finish the isolation there was another little bump in the road.

You know, after a while you don't even react anymore. You just sort of nod or shrug and say, 'okay, here we go again'. One of the CAT's showed more tumors popping up in my chest. That was the bad news. The good news was that they're near the surface, not buried deep inside and they're not too big yet. I mean, I guess that's good news.

So we go back to chemo.

I got out of isolation and five days later I'm back in chemo—delivered by pills this time, and then I'll need probably five day a week radiation.

Now the pisser to this is that I can't go back to the classes I was taking. Remember how I was taking English and Composition and Literature classes at that college? I can't do that now because first of all I have to be in Maryland for the treatment and secondly I have to stay away from crowds for two years or so. That's because of the transplant, I'm told. I'll be taking classes over the Internet, but I really liked those classes.

I really did. I'd go into a classroom and even though I was bald and wearing a hat when it was eighty degrees, no one treated me like a victim or handed me pity or any of that stuff I get everyday.

I'm really going to miss those classes.

A lot.

So after all this, after the time spent a Sloan Kettering and the surgery and the more time at Sloan and the time in chemo and radiation at the other hospitals and the experimental stuff, after losing my hair and losing it again and then one more time, after all the side effects and the mouth sores and the fissures and losing so much weight that I can't believe how thin I am now—after all of this, after my family being consumed with this and my Mom hanging on by her fingernails and the financial ruin they're all facing, after the aborted college and the dances and things I could only go to because someone felt sorry for me, after seeing what this is doing to my sister and my lover and my friends, after all of this the tumors are still growing and multiplying.

I'm not getting better, I'm getting worse.

Now it turns out that even though the doctors thought that I could go home in September and maybe rest up and recover there and see my friends and sleep in my own bed and all of that—now they say that because of the new tumors, and let's by all means not forget about the old ones, either—now I have to stay in Maryland for the radiation. The chemo is just pills this time, it's easy, but the radiation has to be done at NIH because it's free there and we're broke now.

I guess Brian will drive me down every Tuesday and then take me back home for the weekend. That's the plan now, anyway.

Three years since this started and now I'm nineteen and a half.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Please note: To those who don't know or have simply forgotten, Remission is the admittedly thinly veiled true account of a family friend who is suffering from cancer. I have been tracing her fight against her disease and update the story when warranted. I'm not a medical person and claim no expertise. The information is from Lisa's mother who not only deals with this daily, but is also a RN. Both women amaze me.

Friends continue to donate platelets to Lisa and to do what little can be done to help, be it a dinner invitation out or a simple game night at someone's house. One friend offered the use of her beach house to the family.

Hopefully the experimental stem cell treatment will help.

**Remission**

Part Seventeen 

"I think we'll need more than that, Justin—do you two mind?"

"I'll get the other bag—out in the garage, right?"

"No, that's all right; let Molly get it."

"I can do it."

"I have to put my bike in anyway, Jus. 'Be right back."

Justin and his sister were doing the peeling for the mashed potatoes. It was Thanksgiving morning and Jenn was working on getting the turkey ready for the oven, the problem being that it was still partially frozen. Well, actually it was completely frozen. It seemed that she had simply and completely forgotten to thaw the thing out and there was no way on earth that a twenty pound bird would be ready for the oven any time soon. Brian, with atypical patience, had said nothing and walked out when the minor culinary problem threatened to escalate into an actual argument complete with tears.

He and Justin had been down in Bethesda, Maryland on and off for about six months now. Between chemo and radiation, testing and finally, when everything was in place, a bone marrow transplant—an experimental procedure yet to prove effective—which might be the only thing to help in finally, maybe, stopping the advance of the cancer.

So far it didn't seem to be working. Or, as Justin said, 'it wasn't doing dick'. Because of the transplant, the hope of which was that the stem cells contained in the bone marrow would stimulate healthy cell growth instead of cancer cell growth, he'd been forced to spend almost two months in an isolation ward but still somehow managed to contract pneumonia anyway. This had led to his being further isolated in a motel room away from any of the other patients.

You see, when you have a procedure like that, you get a massive, really massive dose of radiation—or was it chemo? Whatever. The idea being that they—the doctors—try to kill your immune system so that the donor cells wouldn't be rejected.

The problem, obviously, is that without an immune system, almost any little old germ wandering by can turn into a situation. They weren't sure he'd live through that one, but he had, thinner than ever before—or as his grandmother said, 'If that boy turns sideways, he disappears'.

But—that was back in August and September and now it was November and he was sprung for a few days. He was sprung for two days, if you wanted to be nitpicky. They had to get back to the National Institute of Health either Friday or Saturday to start up with the radiation again.

So, here he was with his sister, peeling all the potatoes in the universe and pretending that he didn't feel as totally crappy as he did.

The thing with going back for the radiation? He'd already had more radiation over the last three years than anyone on the planet is ever supposed to get and this time it was pretty strong so what was happening was that basically every mucus membrane in his body was full of sores—his mouth, his nose, his butt—and everything else you can think of and probably a few places you'd probably rather not know about. It hurt to breathe and eat and—everything.

There was some good news, though. The tumors on his head seemed to have disappeared, which was really good. The bad news was that he was still getting what his mother referred to as 'pop-up' tumors all through his chest and the treatments weren't doing anything at all for the tumors in his lungs or his breasts. He kept hearing that they were inoperable, so basically if the radiation or chemo or the meds or the stem cells didn't help, then they weren't going to be helped at all.

So he was spending most of his time down at the National Institute of Health undergoing experimental treatments.

He'd even overheard one of his friends at the hospital refer to him as 'just another one of the lab rats'.

The pisser was that it was true and he had gotten to the point of wondering how much longer this would be going on.

Shit, it was Thanksgiving and all of that but frankly, my dear, he was feeling hard pressed to come up with anything to be all that thankful about right now.

Oh, sure, he had his family and his friends and he knew that there were people praying for him and worried about him and all of that and it was all very nice, of course, but when you came down to it—well, when you came down to it, it all pretty much sucked.

One of the things he was really starting to get tired of was the reaction of his friends when they saw him. No, not new friends like the people in the hospital. Old friends, people like Daphne and some of the kids he'd known in school and around the old neighborhood. They'd see him somewhere or maybe come over to visit when he had a week off and even though they'd say all the right things and take him out to a movie or to a Chinese restaurant—well, shit. You'd have to be blind to not see the look on their faces when they saw him all pale and bald and with the circles under his eyes. He had the shunt in his chest and he was weak and he just plain old felt like complete crap and it was getting harder and harder to pretend that he was all right.

That was what he hated the most, the looks on their faces. Even when they were pretending to not notice and that everything was okay, you could still see what they were thinking and he knew damn well that half the reason everyone was here this year was on the chance that it was his last one.

He knew that accounted for the turnout and while on one hand it was nice that they cared, on the other hand, he didn't really like being treated like he was dead when he was still walking around—slowly though it may be.

He was willing to bet that Christmas would pack the house as well.

And this time around he couldn't take the classes he'd liked so much, either. Part of it, a big part of it, was that he was down in Maryland a lot and a bigger part of it was that he was just too sick. He had thought about taking classes on-line but then—well, screw it. He decided to take a semester off.

But he was sprung for now and his family was around along with a few of the usual friends. It was a holiday and even though he felt like crap, he was going to help—damnit. Well, at least for a little while, anyway.

So, he was peeling potatoes and ignoring the brou ha ha about the frozen bird.

"Sweetie, if you're getting tired, you just go lie down, alright?"

"I will." Yes, he knew his mother was just being maternal, but that comment ranked up there with, 'if you're hungry, eat something'.

"Sunshine? You go sit down, I'll finish that."

"Thanks, Deb, but Mol and I have it."

The woman would spoon feed him if he let her, especially after Vic died. She seemed to need to look after someone and Michael wasn't available for that lately. He seemed, finally, to actually be looking after himself—and Ben and Hunter as well..

"Well, come in here and watch the parade—you're missing the Rockettes."

Like he cared. "I'm good." Where the hell had Brian gone? That was just so fucking like him—bailing out, disappearing, taking a hike, and probably picking up some trick—another zucchini man or something.

Fucking Brian—he knew that Justin felt like crap, he knew he wasn't really up to dealing with all the people and the noise and he knew that what he wanted the most was to have him around so they could exchange looks and jokes and rub each other's necks and shit like that—to just connect even with everyone walking around and talking and all of that family stuff.

And now Gus was starting to whine because his father wasn't here to give him a ride on his shoulders and—Christ.

Fucking Brian.

"Sweetie, the cider is hot if you want some—I put extra cinnamon in it the way you like it."

"Thanks, Mom, maybe in a little while, okay?"

"Are you sure? Maybe you'd like to lie down?"

"I'm all right, I'll just finish this bag of potatoes and go inside."

"I don't think that this hot water is thawing this turkey fast enough, Linds…maybe we should put it in the microwave? Justin, honey? You look like you're getting tired. I tell you what, I'll finish that and you go see if Debbie wants to put the pies in the oven yet. How would that be?"

Peachy. "Fine." Whatever. Actually he did feel like shit, but this was just getting so damn tired. 'Poor Justin. Tired Justin. Sick Justin. Bald Justin. Thin Justin. Cancer Justin. Maybe his last Birthday/Thanksgiving/Christmas Justin.'

Tired of the whole thing.

And where the hell was Brian?

Sitting in the big chair, the chair and a half with the blue flowers that he really liked, he thought—and not for the first time— about how Brian had gotten the short end of the stick in this whole thing; maybe even more than he had. Sure, he was the one who was actually sick and going through the treatments, but when you came down to it Brian was going through all the crap just as much. Fine, he wasn't the one getting his body hit the rads and filled with chemicals and throwing up and losing his hair and getting radiation burns and stuck with needles and CAT scanned and MRIed and Christ knew what all, but he was there everyday, holding Justin's hand and talking with the doctors, making sure they all understood just what was going on and what they were hoping for and what the side effects would be and the percentages and the odds. Brian was the one dealing with the boxes of files filled with bills and letters and claims which had to be explained and itemized and often fought or resubmitted. He was the one who made sure that he wasn't stuck in some examination room and forgotten for a couple of hours. Brian was the one who held him at night and made sure he took all of his meds and ate as much as he could and tried to keep him entertained. Brian did the laundry and cooked almost all of their meals and had put his job in jeopardy and still managed to keep his temper most of the time, even when Justin was in a pissy mood or tired or hurting or just at the end of his rope and sitting on the couch crying for the third time that week.

Brian was the one who told Jennifer what was going on and what the prognosis was this week and for next year.

Brian was doing all this from the outside looking in.

Justin was dealing with it in his own body, knowing that he might well not see his next birthday and he was learning to accept that.

Brian was watching the, well shit—he was watching the person he loved go through all of this crap and knew that no matter what he did, nothing would make much difference in the end. All he could do was try to smooth out the bumps and go along for the ride and when it was over—like it was looking like it would be at some point, and not in a positive life affirming way—he would be the one left to deal with the loss.

And that sucked.

Justin sipped his mulled cider; it was really quite good and heard the car engine stop out in the driveway. It was the 'vette. Brian was back from wherever he'd gone.

The kitchen door opened and closed. Sounds of packages.

"Brian! You didn't! Oh my goodness, this looks absolutely beautiful. Debbie, come look at this."

He looked in the direction of the kitchen, not having either the energy or the curiosity to get up and see for himself. Molly came over and sat on the arm of the chair.

"Brian found this like twenty-five pound turkey somewhere, all cooked and hot. It looks and smells amazing so now they're busting to get the vegetables and rolls and stuff cooked so we can eat in like half an hour."

Brian came out to the family room, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat tree. "How you doing?" He sat himself in the big chair, squishing Justin slightly, neither of them caring.

"I'm doing okay. I hear you hunted up a bird that isn't solid ice."

"I couldn't deal with Debbie harping about the fucking thing—and it wouldn't be thawed before Christmas."

"So we get to do this again in a month?"

"God bless us, everyone."

Justin had that small smile on his face, the tiny one when he was just pleased about something. "You know, I'm really glad that you're here."

Brian returned the small, satisfied smile, the one they could use to talk to one another without talking. "Yeah, me, too."

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**Remission**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Debbie had known that Justin was going through a rough patch right now—well, for the last few months, really, but she hadn't realized just how bad it was.

She'd had one of her regular Friday night pasta dinners with the usual gang, not really expecting Brian and Justin to come, but then they'd walked in an hour late to everyone's pleased surprise.

They were greeted, took off their coats, Brian filled his plate with some of the leftovers which Justin declined. He settled in, taking up a seat on the end of the couch; just sitting there, quiet, next to Brian while he ate and everyone pretended that everything was fine; talking and telling jokes back and forth.

Justin—Jesus, it hurt just to look at him.

The first thing Deb noticed when he'd walked in was his color; his face was gray, pale and pinched with pain. Then, after the bulky coat came off, she saw how fucking thin he was now—skin and bones, really. He looked like those kids you see in the magazines or on TV sometimes, the ones who have anorexia. Jennifer had mentioned that he was having trouble keeping his food down, but this—Mother of God.

Then, beyond that, Deb was taken aback by the way the kid acted. Before this, every time she'd seen him he'd been upbeat and happy to be out with his friends. He'd be joining in with the kidding around and smiling, but this time he just looked like all he wanted was to curl up in a ball somewhere, hope to God the pain would stop and sleep.

Oh, and that was the other thing—the circles under his eyes.

The damn kid looked like he hadn't slept in weeks and when she could finally pull Brian aside to ask what was going on, he just said that the radiation had burned Justin's chest with second degree burns and the mouth sores were back so, between the two, he couldn't eat and the pain stopped him from sleeping but they'd be taking care of that in the morning.

"How?"

"They're going to fit him with a portable drip."

"A what? What the fuck are you talking about—that poor baby's going to have an IV bag with him or some shit like that?"

They were in the kitchen then, Brian clearing his plate. "It's a small backpack he can keep with him; it's a morphine drip for the pain, Deb. If he needs the med he can just push a button."

Oh my God. A fucking portable morphine drip.

It doesn't take a damn medical degree to know how bad it has to be for that.

Justin is nineteen years old.

They still go down to Bethesda two days a week for the treatments but the kid isn't strong enough for any more than that and the doctors are afraid that it will do more harm than good to push it so, as Brian said, they just take it one day at a time.

When they're home they mostly stay in but then Brian told Deb about this new idea they've had—well, Justin had.

They want to start—well, they are starting, a new foundation to raise money for pediatric cancer research and kids medical needs. Yeah, we all know there are tons of foundations and groups that do that and some of them are pretty damn good, but this one has a different point of view.

They want it to be kids raising money for kids. You know how every town has some kid with leukemia or brain cancer or something? Well, take the money from bake sales and the sale of note cards and whatever and put it where it's needed.

The money raised will go, one hundred percent to Sloan Kettering and NIH (National Institute of Health).

That's what Justin is focusing on now.

He's donated a painting of his for an auction to raise money for Sloan Kettering. Sure, he knows they're heavily endowed but screw it. They helped him—or tried to and he wants to give back. In fact, they were going to deliver it themselves that week while Justin still was strong enough to do it.

Then Brian told Deb what Justin really wants his legacy to be. He even told her, "When Justin dies, he wants people to know what the gold ribbons mean."

Deb shook her head—what? Gold ribbons?

"You know how pink ribbons are for breast cancer and yellow is for the troops, red is for AIDS? A Gold ribbon is for pediatric cancer awareness and most of people don't know that. That's what Justin really wants; for people to know. It's important to him." He reached into his pocket. "I have a present for you—for everyone." He handed her a small pin, maybe an inch long. It was one of the gold ribbon pins. Moving through the room he handed one to each of their friends quietly explaining what it was for.

Over on the couch, Justin had fallen asleep.

Later, after everyone had gone home and the place was put back to order, Deb sat on the end of the couch Justin had used earlier that evening.

The thing that stuck was the way Brian had phrased it. "When Justin dies, he wants that to be his legacy."

For the first time since this had started three years ago, the mask had slipped and shown the acceptance of the inevitably of what was happening.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

**Please Note: This is the concluding chapter of Remission and involves death. If you'd rather not read this, then don't; stop here. However, again, what follows is true.  
**

**Remission**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Conclusion**

Brian got the phone call three days before they were supposed to leave. Make-a-Wish had found space at the last minute for them all to go to Puerto Rico for the week and it came just in time.

Justin—well, Justin wasn't doing well and people, friends, were starting to accept that things weren't going the way everyone hoped that they would. It wasn't really a surprise after everything they'd all been through the last three years, but there was still hope.

They never gave up hope.

That's the thing to remember. That's the thing to not forget. They—none of them gave up hope.

Even when the years passed and the prognosis turned from optimistic to guarded and finally to hopeless—even then they didn't give up.

Everyone thought that the chemo would work and everyone hoped that the radiation would help. Maybe the new drugs would be the ones to turn things around. Maybe the things he went through at the National Institute of Health; the experimental stem cell research he'd gone through or the bone marrow transplant would be the magic bullet. Even when Justin himself would tell people, calmly and matter-of-factly, that the new treatments he was undergoing had never worked—well, maybe this would be the time they did.

And then he'd say, also calmly and matter-of-factly, if they didn't help him, maybe they'd help the next kid.

Jennifer had gone to a dinner with the 'family' a couple of days before she knew the trip was approved and that was when her friends saw the change in her demeanor which told them what was really happening. Oh, she was as upbeat as she always was, just as cheerful but there was a difference during the dinner and she didn't even seem like she was trying to hide it. Maybe she felt safe among good friends or maybe she just got tired of the front. It doesn't matter.

That was when she said things like how the paintings they were donating to Sloan Kettering and the Valerie Fund needed to get picked up. Soon. They needed to get them while Justin was still strong enough to help deliver them.

That was when she started talking about what Justin wanted as his legacy.

That was the first time she said—and maybe it was a slip of the tongue, that was when she first said 'When Justin dies' instead of her usual 'if'.

Her friends all caught it, though, and after she had left for the drive home they had stayed in the restaurant, annoying the staff who wanted to close up and leave. They had talked, quietly, about what they'd just heard. There wasn't actually much to say, really. It was inevitable by then and they all knew that, but still.

They didn't know that Justin had been sent home from the National Institute of Health a week before so he could die in peace, with no more treatments or invasions to his body.

The friends thought there would be more time. They thought that Justin might make it to his twentieth birthday or to the fall. Maybe he'd even see another Christmas, but now, well, maybe not.

So they went to Puerto Rico and they even had a good time. Brian was beside Justin pretty much the whole trip and Molly had been allowed to bring a friend, which was nice of the Make-a-Wish people. Justin wasn't quite strong enough to walk along the beach like he'd wanted to, but they'd rented a boat on Saturday and took him out in that. The two of them lay by the pool and talked. Justin slept a lot in a hammock slung between two palm trees. It was warm and pleasant. The resort was beautiful and everyone they met was so wonderfully kind.

Once, when Brian thought Justin was still asleep on the chaise by the low surf, he heard, "When I'm dead, I want you to get over it, all right? Grieve and then move on."

There was no point in playing games or being coy. Brian nodded, picked up Justin's hand and kissed it. "I will."

"Don't bullshit me. Promise."

"I promise."

"And make sure Mom does, too. I've told her, but you know how she is."

"I'll look out for her."

"She doesn't need a fag for that. Tell her to find herself a new man." Brian said he'd do what he could.

It was a good trip and if later their friends learned that the doctors had advised against going, saying Justin might die there, well, he wanted to go and if he died, he'd be where he wanted to be. No one suggested that the trip was the wrong thing to do because it wasn't. It had gotten to the point where all that mattered was that he be happy at the end and so they did whatever would give him pleasure.

They went and he made it home alive and that was a triumph.

They got home on Sunday.

On Monday Justin felt well enough to have a bath, which always made him feel better.

On Tuesday he died.

Brian was holding him, not saying anything, but still telling him it was all right to let go. Finally, Justin did. He opened his eyes, looked around the room, at all his things and Brian beside him, breathed once more and closed his eyes.

That was it.

No fireworks, no drama. He just closed his eyes and was gone.

They lay there, the two of them for a few minutes and then Brian had to move, had to do something. First he called Jennifer. She was quiet when he told her, not surprised, calm. She didn't cry and said she'd be right over. Then he phoned Ben, knowing that Ben would spread the word. Finally he called the paramedics and the funeral home.

The word did go out and the calls and flowers started arriving at the loft within hours.

No one expected the call when it came. Not really. Oh sure, they all knew it was coming, but not right now, not this week, not yet. Maybe in the fall or something, but not now.

Not yet.

Jennifer brought food and wasn't surprised when neither of them cried during their greeting hug, knowing, in a detached way, they were both in shock and would likely be running on adrenalin for the next few days. The bags from Puerto Rico were still on the floor, unopened and still packed.

Wednesday the friends started coming over with more food, more flowers and the planning started; which church, which casket, what hymns, what clothes would Justin wear, where to publish the obituary, who would write it. Brian bought a cemetery plot and was slightly surprised to see that it came with an actual deed and then thought, "Well, of course. It's real estate."

The phone didn't stop ringing.

Out of town relatives were told and flights arranged.

Thursday the 'family' came over in the morning, cleaning every inch of the loft. The last few months Brian had let things go a little. It wasn't that the place was a mess or really dirty, but Brian had abandoned his obsession with neat to concentrate on more important things. They came over and waxed the floors, washed windows, did laundry, cleaned the rugs, polished anything that needed it and stayed the day. Brian and Jenn were freed to deal with the hundreds of details.

No one cried.

They talked and joked like it was any one of their regular get togethers. They laughed and Brian and Jenn joined in when the jokes were funny. It was upbeat and more pleasant than any of them had expected. They had a good time, glad to be doing something useful and constructive, needing to be together, to connect with one another. It was therapeutic for all of them and a good idea.

Towards the end of the day, after a dinner of the food various people had brought over, they looked through albums Jenn had brought and poured through the downloaded pictures of the trip they'd just returned from. The only awkward moment was when, looking over Debbie's shoulder at a snap of Justin laying cradled in his arms on the boat, Brian made an off hand comment about 'that was Saturday'.

Less than a week ago.

Justin looked tired in the picture, painfully thin. His color was ashen, and his hair was course and short from the last treatments, but he was smiling; content; his hands resting on Brian's arms around him.

After the cleaning was done, they all sat around the dining room table, taking pictures, making collages on poster board to display at the viewing. The snapshots brought more memories and they talked till late. Justin as a baby, all blue eyes, as a toddler at a friend's birthday party, at the zoo, in a pool, at cub scouts, in a park, in school, on Christmas morning, growing up in class pictures. Pictures when he was older at St. James, with Daphne, holding an infant Molly, riding his bike. There were pictures of his artwork, of Justin older, passionate in some school debate, laughing in the lunchroom, intent over a sketchbook, marching in the Gay Pride Parade, hugging Brian.

Friday, Saturday, people arrived. Relatives flew in, drove in. They were all met, found rooms for and the family, along with Brian and Jenn, moved and walked and said the things they had to while numb to the reality of what had happened.

The viewing was Sunday. The funeral home was packed and they stood, Brian, Jenn and Molly—Craig couldn't face what had happened and came briefly, leaving quickly—by the open casket, hugging people, speaking and taking up the slack when the friends or co-workers or Justin's student friends were too choked to talk; thanking them for their help, their phone calls, their friendship.

The funeral itself was Monday, Valentine's Day, and the funeral home opened the doors almost an hour early, knowing there would be a large crowd.

The pews held 300. There were another fifty standing in the back. The music was a piano and a flute with vocals from the St. James choir, who had called, asking if they could perform, rather than being asked to show up.

Father Tom spoke eloquently, movingly. Jenn spoke, her voice breaking as she struggled to thank everyone who had helped over the years—the friends who would drop whatever they were doing to donate blood or platelets so Justin might live one more week, the friend who found the college that would allow him to take classes part time, the ones who phoned or e-mailed or dropped over with food or made sure Molly was picked up from school and that she had a place to stay when they were all busy with Justin for a weekend or a week.

Friends from high school and PIFA spoke, telling stories and expressing the loss, speaking about Justin's courage and his generosity and his beauty. Michael talked about his talent and his tenacity—which brought a laugh, even from Brian.

They sang hymns and, after almost three hours, they caravanned to the cemetery in a snowstorm.

Another set of prayers, the coffin eased, carefully, down an icy hill to the open scar in the ground. Flowers were placed on the oak lid. More prayers and the casket was lowered. Debbie watched Jenn as her son's coffin was lowered into the ground; shock heartbreak, stunned disbelief and unfathomable grief all on her face. Jewish friends took turns shoveling freezing, muddy clods onto the lid and they were done.

That was the worst part. That was when people cried and held one another, telling each other how much they loved each other—needing to say it in a cemetery with the snow changing to freezing rain, seeing their breath in the cold air.

More cars back to the immaculate loft. People everywhere, too much food and finally they could talk, relax a little and just be friends together.

They stayed another three hours and, like a lot of funeral parties, it was a good one with the guests enjoying one another and able to let down after the nightmare week. For once, Emmett didn't go over board and kept it simple, knowing there was no need for elaboration. He did his job well.

Then it was over.

People left, having to get home, to catch a flight, to beat rush hour, to start dinner. They hugged Jenn and Brian and plans were made for dinner next week. There would be more invitations. There would be cookouts and game nights and dinners. They would have birthday parties and Christmas parties and they would call often.

They were a family, and that was strengthened by what had happened, by what Ted had called, quoting Dickens, "this first parting among us".

The numbing shock would wear off for Brian and Jennifer and the next few months would be more difficult, in their way, than the previous ones had been. Their homes would be too quiet, their evenings too long, their holidays missing a vital part to make them whole. The pain, never disappearing, would lessen, eventually. It would fade from the razor sharp, white-hot agony to a dull ache and would become manageable because there was no other choice.

Of course, they wouldn't forget—none of the 'family' would. It would be impossible to do so and not what any of them wanted.

And they would move on.

* * *

**Note:** Lisa passed away at home on Tuesday, February 8, 2005. Her mother, an RN who had been her tireless advocate, companion and caretaker, was with her. Buried on St. Valentine's Day, she was nineteen years old. 

Lisa was sick for almost four years from the time of her original diagnosis to her death, three months before her twentieth birthday. She continued her high school work while undergoing treatment at Sloan Kettering, graduating on time and scoring 1578 on her SAT's. Walking across the stage to receive her diploma, a thousand people gave her a standing ovation. Accepted to the college of her choice, she was forced to defer her admission, never going to the out of state school she'd wanted, but instead taking classes part time for two years at a local university near her home and maintaining a 4.0—again while undergoing treatment; often attending class after an early morning radiation or chemo session, annoyed at students who would arrive with their work undone or wearing pajamas.

She was a dancer and figure skater who later joined her high school's ice hockey team and went to the prom wearing a wig, a donated Vera Wang and on the arm of a childhood and lifelong friend who later served as one of her pallbearers. Her hockey stick and figure skates were buried with her.

During the last year, she founded the Kids for Cancer Cure Research Fund that raises money for pediatric cancer research, and volunteered for experimental treatments at the National Institute of Health, knowing that while they were unlikely to help her, might hold promise for other cancer patients. This was her decision and her choice.

In four years, though often in tears of pain and frustration at home or in private, Lisa never once failed to show courage and grace to her friends, grateful for the tremendous support that was shown not just to her, but to her family as well.

She was a gentle, remarkably beautiful and fiercely intelligent young woman who was born dyslexic but became an avid reader through determination and force of will—and hard work. A child who suffered too much but still managed to smile and laugh. Her going leaves an empty space but has brought close friends closer.

We would often speak, the group of old friends who have known one another for decades now, who would take her mother out to dinner when she needed a break, who donated blood and platelets, gave money and endless time and countless phone calls over the last few years about how unfair it all was and how desperately wrong, how easily it could have been one of our kids instead. Knowing that if it were, the generosity would still have flowed back and forth from family to family and friend to friend—and will, should the need arise.

This story was, clearly, my personal way of dealing with the illness and loss of not just Lisa, but also the pain of her family and the good friends who were impacted. I thank everyone who read the many chapters of Remission for sending kind words and who often shared heartbreaking stories of their own experiences with cancer.

Lisa was a kind and gentle soul with reserves of strength that often seemed to me superhuman, as was the courage and tenacity and bottomless well of love from her family. She did this with the unfailing strength and support of her parents and her two brothers who, as one of her eulogists said, 'stopped being the younger brothers and became the older ones, never leaving the house without seeing if she needed anything and always stopping in her room when they got home to make sure she was all right'; all of whom were trapped in the ultimately heartbreaking ending of a Greek tragedy.

It's easy to toss around words like 'exceptional' or 'inspired', courageous' and extraordinary'. Because it's so easy, the words tend to become cheapened and lose their meaning, but Lisa surmounted the clichés. She endured what she did with grace and compassion, and though in tremendous pain, continued to fight a war she couldn't win years longer than anyone thought possible

And I miss her.


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Remission. Part Twenty

Author: Simon

Pairing: B/J + Jenn

Rating: PG-13, I guess

Summary: The first Thanksgiving after Justin died.

Warnings: The usual angst, I suppose

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Moonshadow Tribe and ATP

Feedback: Hell, yes. is based on a true story.

**Remission**

**Ten Months Gone**

**Thanksgiving**

So it was Thanksgiving and Justin had died last February. Last Thanksgiving he was still here, sick, but here.

This wasn't the first holiday without him, but it was the first big one. Yes, they had gotten through his birthday and the picnics on the Fourth of July and Labor Day, but this was the big family holiday. This was the one where people traveled across hundreds and thousands of miles through crummy weather and crowded roads to make sure the turkey would be eaten with everyone who mattered. That was the way is was supposed to be—every Hallmark card and Martha Stewart special said so…

The year had been as bad as they thought it would be.

Worse, really.

Sure, they knew it would be lonely and that there would be holes in their hearts and lives and the empty place at the table and silence on too long evenings and weekends, but no one had really explained that it wouldn't get better; that it would get worse and grow in ways they hadn't anticipated.

To be fair to everyone who cared about what happened, maybe no one could explain what it would be like. Maybe it was something you had to go through it and do the best you could, right? And it wasn't like they weren't keeping busy. They were busy—there were always things to do, friends calling, work, laundry, kids, reading the mail, washing the car. There was a lot to keep them all busy. Their lives hadn't stopped, not really, not actually. Day by day, life went by like it always did.

It wasn't the same, and though they knew it wouldn't be, they hadn't understood just how it would be different.

The day to day stuff was all there, but it was like they had taken that detour into another reality where you were always either a little numb or about to cry and you couldn't understand how the sun was shining and people were still stopping for the light and going through the grocery checkout line and doing homework like nothing had changed.

It had changed, everything that mattered had changed and not just because Justin had died; but, yes that was the catalyst and they all knew it.

Three years.

That was what the grief counselor had told them it could take. That was the amount of time it took to process what happened and accept it. That was how long it would likely be before it would seem like summer was warm and not just a period of the year when it was too hot and humid or that the sun made things bright and not just glary. Three years before they could expect to wake up and not have to remember all over again that he wouldn't be there for breakfast. Three years before they really began to move on and in the meantime everything seemed to take a back seat.

But then again—no.

It wasn't that simple.

Some people would take three years. Some people would take three months. Some were over it as soon as they left the funeral and some would never crawl out of the hole of sadness and sorrow and loss.

And meanwhile things still needed to be done.

Molly's private school announced it was closing last spring, just a few days before the end of the term. It wasn't completely unexpected, but no one thought it would happen, either. Attendance was down, bills couldn't be paid and though they finished out the year, the students and faculty and families had less than two weeks between the closing notice and the doors being permanently locked. Jenn had looked for other schools, but they were too far away or too expensive or too full and Molly ended up transferring to the local public school and despised it.

Then there had been the night Jenn had called her down to dinner during the summer and gotten no response. She'd called again and then again. Finally Molly had appeared, angry, sullen and tongue lashed her mother for almost two hours, venting every slight and perceived lack of attention and the days there simply hadn't been time for her all through Justin's illness. She cited every missed school play and soccer game, every teacher's conference that had to be cancelled, every overnight with her friends she couldn't attend because someone had to be there in case Justin needed something and Jenn had to be somewhere else, every birthday celebrated a week late or not at all. She lambasted Jenn about being ignored and being shoved into the background because Justin was more important, more needy, more special and while Jenn knew Molly understood why things had played out the way they had and that Molly both loved and missed her brother, it was weeks before they could sit at the kitchen table again without tension.

Brian buried himself in his work, and business thrived but Brian seemed to disappear. He sold his interest in the club and spent impossible hours traveling to win new accounts. He made more money than he had thought possible and spent almost none of it, too busy hiding in his work to care. He rarely went to Deb's for dinners and almost never stopped in at the diner for breakfast, as he used to do almost daily. When Linds or Ted or Michael called he was always polite, which was frightening in itself, but usually declined to join them for the movies or a weekend somewhere. He withdrew and when they did manage to get him in the same room with everyone, he was evasive and vague, always assuring everyone he was fine and keeping busy. They shouldn't worry about him, he'd been taking care of himself since he was fifteen and he could take care of himself now.

Then Jenn began to focus on how people were starting to forget Justin, starting to move on and she couldn't accept that; she couldn't let that happen. She began concentrating her attention and energy on raising money for the charity Justin had wanted to start so they could raise money for pediatric cancer research. She made hundreds of calls and friends tried to help as much as they were allowed, but Jenn seemed to need to do most of it herself, of course. Still reeling from shock and grief, she was too scattered for a long time and people stepped in to run the art auction with her nominally at the head of the committee.

Disorganized, but pulled together at the last minute, it raised thirty thousand dollars that were donated to Sloan-Kettering in the fall, earmarked for the pediatric research people there and directed by two of Justin's doctors. They'd made a lot of mistakes, but they'd know better how to run things next year. By the way, did you know that September is Pediatric Cancer Awareness Month? Well, it is. That's why they had the auction in September.

That's something else they all learned—just how many cancer charities there are. A lot of them are under the umbrella of the American Cancer Society (or the New York or Pennsylvania or whatever Cancer Society) and that's for a good reason. There's a lot of paperwork involved in a charity and the ACC will do it for you and direct donations where you want them to go. It's called Dedicated Gifting and it really works, just write and tell them which fund should get your money. Plus working through The Cancer Society gives you instant credibility.

There are a million charities, right? And lots of them are good causes. We have some serious donor fatigue—how many begathon letters do you get very month? The environment, the Humane Society, natural disasters, politicians, your local fire department, the kid with leukemia in town, Doctors Without Borders, Unicef, Planned Parenthood, money for the arts, local scholarships and on and on. You get what I mean? You need a big, well known charity name to bring in the money that is needed or you get lost in the crowd.

You see, when someone losses a child (or a wife or mother or husband or friend) to cancer, it's hard—really hard—to accept that they're gone and for something as impersonal and random as cancer. I mean really gone, never talk to them again, never see their grandchildren, cross them off the Christmas list gone. You want to cry and scream about how unfair it all is and, of course, it's neither fair nor unfair. It simply is. There is often neither rhyme nor reason and that's one of the hardest things to accept, especially when dealing with the loss of a child. An argument can be made that a smoker may have brought lung cancer on himself or that someone who worked with toxic chemicals or something should have known the risks—not that it makes it any easier, but you can almost rationalize it.

But when it's a kid—shit.

So you can't accept that a child, a kid who never hurt anyone and who never did a million things we all take for granted goes through this sort of hell, well, then you can't bear to think that they'll be forgotten.

But they are, of course. No, no—that's not what I mean. They're not forgotten, not by the people who knew them and who they mattered to, but the plain fact is that life does go on and after a while people accept it and get on with their lives and that can be a knife in the gut to the ones who are still reeling.

But let's get past that for right now, okay?

Now, you have to understand that good things happened during the almost year as well as the bad stuff. Things happened which made Jenn and Brian cry with happiness and gratitude for the people responsible—though Brian would do so in private.

There was the girl—Corey—a classmate of Justin's who presented Jenn with a scrapbook of both candid pictures and letters from his friends, each one recounting a story or memory about Justin, many of which his family had never heard.

On Justin's birthday, the same girl arranged for his old friends, friends he'd grown up with in the old neighborhood to each chip in five dollars so that an actual star would be named in his honor. The certificate arrived on what would have been his twentieth birthday.

But Jenn, God.

I've got to tell you that I'm really worried about her. She's not even starting to move on and it's scary to see and, hell, I'm really worried about her.

There was a wedding last summer, over Fourth of July weekend and all the usual family was there. It was a nice wedding, tasteful, happy, pretty bride, handsome groom, great food and music. I happened to walk out with Jenn and she asked me what would happen to the flowers on the tables. I said they'd probably be thrown out if no one claimed them so she emptied a few small vases 'for Justin'. I know she stopped at his grave on her way home and it about killed me. Then a few days ago on Thanksgiving she showed up with Molly for dinner with the family and had a dozen long stemmed white roses with her—beautiful things—so that 'Justin will be here with us'. I found her a vase and put it near the table.

But you see what I mean?

And she's not dealing well with Brian, either. They're butting heads and I think they don't speak a lot. He's hurting too, you know, but he's got his work and sees people all day long, but Jenn is spending a lot of time in her house. I know her friends invite her out and stuff, but—shit. She cancels a lot at the last minute and no one says anything. Maybe they should, I guess but I don't think she'd accept delivery. She's always nice and polite in that Jenn way, but she won't be pushed by anyone, no matter how good the intentions.

Hell, that's the other thing I wanted to tell you about Jenn and Molly. When she was so busy with Justin, Mol learned how to do for herself. She sort of had to and now that Jenn is back she's feeling sort of superfluous as a mother and a caretaker, I think. She gave up her job to help Justin, though she's starting work again part time. She's back now and time just didn't stand still. Molly flat out doesn't need her like she used to. The kid can make her own dinner and clean her own room and get herself to school. She loves her Mom, sure, but she doesn't need her like she used to and that's killing Jenn; she doesn't know what to do with herself.

For four years she took care of Justin, so now she's not only lost her son, she's lost her roll of Mom with Molly as well. Okay, she's still 'Mom', but Molly can take care of herself and it happened while Jenn was away and so she's lost more than just one child—you see what I mean?

So they showed up for Thanksgiving and Jenn walked in with a dozen long stemmed white roses—beautiful things. She asked for and was found a vase and said, quietly, "This way Justin will be with us, too." White roses were what everyone placed on the coffin before it was lowered in to the grave.

Now no one said anything, of course—what the hell could you say? The flowers were there all through dinner and the games afterwards but when everyone left they forgot to take the roses—Jenn had said everyone should take one with them as a remembrance, but in the bustle and cleaning up and getting of coats and all, they were simply forgotten and I feel badly about that, though I was the one who ended up with the flowers, and they still look fresh.

Jenn is brittle now, and fragile and I'm worried about what will happen. Brian is coping—grieving, of course, and his heart is broken, but he's still alive. There's something in Jenn which seems to be desperately trying to find a reason to still get up in the morning and I think if she doesn't find it soon, it will be—what will it be? Bad? Sure. But it's more than that.

Something very real died in Jenn with Justin and I wish I knew—or someone knew how to spark it again.

If that's possible.

11/27/05

7


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**Remission**

**Chapter twenty-one **

**Two and a half years later**

Well, not exactly two and a half years later, but almost. Justin was buried on Valentine's Day, 2005. This is summer of 2007. Not quite two and a half years, but close.

Some good, some bad has happened in that time.

Time—it's moving on, of course and the people are moving along with it. Some are moving easily, some are hitting the rocks along the way and a few seem to be crashing.

Jenn seems to be doing better and that's terrific. She's gotten a job she likes. She learned so much about meds and cancer and illness in kids that she has a job working in a pediatrician's office and seems to love it. I mean, I guess she does. It certainly keeps her busy and she often shows up at dinners with the group of friends straight from work and wearing her scrubs—when she doesn't cancel at the last minute, that is. She keeps taking classes and learning more and more about medicine and I think this may be her new career. This is probably good.

She's also incredibly busy working on the charity—KCRF (Kids Cancer Research Fund). They have a number of fundraising events during the year and the biggie is in September, which happens to be Pediatric Cancer Awareness Month. Bet you didn't know that, did you? So far they've donated almost $100,000 to Sloan Kettering, earmarked for pediatric cancer research. We're all in the planning stages for this year's wingding and hopes are high that it will make a lot of money. I hope it does. It's a drop in the bucket—I know it and so do you, but it what we can do. You do the best you can.

Okay, that's something that frustrates me. You know all those pink ribbons and all those products you can get that's supposed to give money to the Susan G. Kohmen Foundation? I'm sure they do get the money—don't misunderstand me or anything like that and I'm sure it's all a good idea but did you know that we don't seem to be any closer to a cure or vaccine or anything in the fight against breast cancer? They're the big cheese for cancer fundraising and they do a hell of a job but—dammit.

C'mon—don't misunderstand me here. Of course I think raising money to stop this cancer bastard is important. Of course it is. And raising awareness about it matters, too. It just doesn't always seem like we're getting anywhere. Okay, I know progress is being made. I do know that but, Christ.

I frigging want it cured fucking _now_.

Not in six years, not in twenty years, not in time for my grandchildren. I want it fucking _yesterday_ so all those sick kids with cancer can just get up and go home and have their hair all grow back until it gets so long they have to tie it back to keep it out of their eyes. I want all those women with breast cancer, whose bodies have been mutilated to get up and go play tennis or go back to work. I want the poor bastards with brain cancer or stomach cancer or liver cancer or leukemia to wake up tomorrow and be okay and have no pain and live to be 90 and happy.

_Now, Goddamit._

So I said good and bad have happened. I know I did, I'm getting to that.

Okay, like I said, Jenn is doing better but she's still not there, not by a long shot. She drinks a little too much and she still can't quite bring herself to clean out Justin's old room. All his stuff is still there, the stuff that isn't in my place, that is. She's holding onto his old books and clothes and Christ knows what all. It's all there sitting right where it was. I have a feeling that it's going to be there for a while. A long while.

She also has taken to doing things like seeking out spiritualists to see if she can contact Justin. Mind you, I'm actually okay with her doing this. It's not for me, no, but if it helps her—fuck, I'm all for anything that helps her.

But Molly.

Shit—Molly.

She's not doing well. You see she never believed that Justin would really die. She believed that some miracle would happen and he'd wake up one day and magically be all better. She donated the stem cells for some experimental treatment down at the National Institute of Health that were going to make him all better. She _knew_ that he'd beat this.

But he didn't. He died.

Then her school closed. You know that hot-shit private place Justin went to? It shut the doors for lack of funds caused by dwindling attendance. She loved that school and she hated the one she had to go to instead. Hated it. She didn't make friends; she didn't participate in any of the activities. She withdrew into herself and then she started with the drugs and the lies. God, that about killed Jenn and even Craig.

They hoped that the Outward Bound trip up to Alaska would help her. I'm not sure why they thought that, but I guess they didn't know what else to do with her since they'd tried the therapy and the meds and everything else they could think of. She left a few days ago, on a Saturday. By Wednesday we'd heard what happened.

Jenn was supposed to join us at an Italian restaurant for a dinner meeting about the KCRF thing in the fall but she didn't show. We called, she said she'd be late because Mol was being Medivaced to some Alaskan hospital and she was trying to find out what was going on. It was happening right at that moment and she didn't know much more than we did—or she wasn't telling, anyway. Maybe she'd fallen and broken a leg, maybe it was something worse maybe it was nothing and they just weren't taking any chances. We didn't know.

The next day the truth went out by the usual word of mouth phone chain.

No, no broken leg. Molly had attempted suicide, though we didn't know the details or how serious it was. Oh hell—that's not what I mean. _Of course_ it was serious. I mean we didn't know if it was a real attempt to really kill herself or if it was the old cry for help. We didn't know if Jenn was going to fly to Alaska or if Molly would be transported back home. We didn't know what condition she was in, either mentally or physically.

And then there was a long silence when no one could get a hold of Jenn or Craig. The phone rang and we'd leave messages but we never heard back—none of us did and none of us knew what that meant. The silence lasted five or six days and no one knew anything—had Jenn flown to Alaska to be with Mol? Had Molly been shipped back east? Had she died? Had she OD'd? Had she slit her wrists? Was she in some kind of detox or lockdown? Was she under a continued suicide watch?

And what had brought it on?

Okay. Let's not be idiots here. Okay? We know what brought it on, right? Molly was shoved into the background for years while everyone concentrated on Justin and Jenn. Jenn and Justin were heroic and Molly was just kind of there being quiet and trying to stay out of the way. Justin was a saint and Molly was up in her room. Craig and Jenn broke up. Justin died. Molly's school closed.

You get the picture. We all get the picture. In a way none of us were even all that surprised when you come down to it. Horrified, upset—sure, but not all that surprised.

I remember thinking all of that and then getting really angry at Molly. I mean it. I was furious. Yes, sure, I felt badly and all of that—poor kid, rough row to hoe and all of that and so young.

Screw that.

I mean it. Screw that.

Molly was hurting? Yes. She is. I know. I get it.

Things didn't turn out the way she wanted? Join the club.

Shit happens.

Get used to it.

Deal with it.

Who the fuck was she to dump this on Jenn just when things were starting to begin to have a glimmer of looking up a little bit? Jenn hasn't had enough crap the last few years?

Molly's hurting? Fine.

Molly's a kid. I know that. She doesn't have the resources to cope. I understand that. I really do. Fine.

But this? This is bullshit.

So I finally get the word today. A week after we get the initial announcement. Things seem better now.

Molly's back east and spending the week at the shore with friends. Good. Great. She's feeling better and that's good.

And Jenn was just shoved through one more wringer.

7/9/07

5


End file.
